


Jailbird

by JazTheBard



Series: Jailbird AU [1]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Don't Have to Know the Silmarillion, F/M, Faramir Can See the Future, Faramir Joins the Fellowship, Found Family, Gen, Includes Original Songs, Kidnap Dads, Minor Boromir/Théodred, Minor Frodo/Sam/Rosie, Minor Gimli/Legolas Greenleaf, Misunderstandings, POV Outsider, Prison AU in the broadest sense of the term, Prophetic Dreams, Surprisingly Good Parenting From a Guy in a Tower, The Silmarillion References, Tolkien Gen Week
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-12
Updated: 2020-12-14
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:47:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 35
Words: 50,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25222621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JazTheBard/pseuds/JazTheBard
Summary: There is singing from the southeast tower of the citadel.There isalwayssinging from the southeast tower of the citadel.For over three thousand years someone has lived in that tower and sung, and today Faramir wants to know why.
Relationships: Aragorn | Estel & Faramir (Son of Denethor II), Boromir (Son of Denethor II) & Faramir (Son of Denethor II), Elrond Peredhel & Maglor | Makalaurë, Faramir (Son of Denethor II) & The Fellowship of the Ring, Maglor & Faramir, Éowyn/Faramir (Son of Denethor II)
Series: Jailbird AU [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1827349
Comments: 1774
Kudos: 676





	1. Green Finch and Linnet Bird

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy last day of Tolkien Gen Week! to celebrate, here's the first chapter of Jailbird, which i've been working on for... a long while
> 
> updates will be slower than archaeology as i'm still writing this and a bunch of it needs to be edited too
> 
> i will, like on archaeology, be posting silm notes with each chapter so any references i make to it, or other non-obvious LOTR lore, will be explained, i want this to be as accessible as possible. this is bookverse (i haven't actually read the books, just the silm, but it's fine)
> 
> silm notes for this chapter:  
> -all of the king and steward names are real. steward dior is named after elrond's grandfather so i thought it'd be funny  
> -steward dior is the closest to correct, elrond's birth dad is in a boat and he's the evening star and killed a giant dragon that brought down a mountain range in a land now lost, and the guy in the tower burned himself on something very much like the star  
> -tar-minyatur is elrond's brother elros who chose to be mortal and founded numenor  
> -hey remember that time elrond and his brother got kidnapped when they were six?  
> -W H Y would you name your kid turin, that's the name of an extremely cursed guy w terrible luck  
> -also miriel. the original miriel was an elf who died and this caused a Lot of problems  
> -queen beruthiel is a CANONICAL queen of gondor who was evil and had cats that spied on people. i love her so much.
> 
> also yes the chapter title is from sweeney todd
> 
> sincerely hoping the formatting works rip

_Observations_

1\. The prisoner is old enough to remember the Elder Days, and will tell of them, but only if asked for a tale. Asking directly of the period does not work.

2\. He sings and plays almost constantly, and becomes distressed if you ask him to stop.

3\. He has or had multiple brothers.

  * He _had_ multiple brothers, all are now dead.



4\. He has or had two children.

  * Incorrect, he has never had children.
  * To clarify: the prisoner speaks of a pair of children, but seems to change his mind on whether or not they were/are his own.
  * Addendum: at least one of the two children is dead and has been for a long time.



5\. We know that Queen Berúthiel's evil cats spied on him, but they were unable to share their findings with anyone at all.

6\. He seems to like hearing news from the realms of elves, but insists that no elf be told of him.

7\. During the Kin-Strife of the 15th century, he refused to speak except for dire warnings and recitations of an ancient curse laid upon those who kill their kin.

8\. He apparently knew Tar-Minyatur.

9\. He despises the swearing of oaths.

10\. You will once in a while need to give him new instruments and supplies to repair his old ones, and keep him supplied with writing materials. This is better than him breaking glass with his voice.

_Rules_

1\. Do not set the prisoner free. To my knowledge, he does not ask to be released, or try to escape, but this may change.

2\. Do not ask about his family.

3\. Keep the prisoner a secret except from your most trusted advisors, and ensure that they keep him secret, too. Absolutely do not allow any elves to know of his presence here.

4\. Seek his counsel only in times of dire need, or when his ancient knowledge may make him an asset. He cannot be trusted entirely.

5\. If you choose to ask for his advice, follow what he says. It may not be good for you, but so far it has always been in the best interests of Gondor.

6\. Ensure that he meets your children, but only once. He is protective of young ones, and will give them his blessing, but do not give him the opportunity to weave an elven enchantment on them.

7\. If you find something in a language none can translate, or strange unidentifiable artifacts, go to him. But in exchange, you must bring him books or treatises on languages or dialects he does not speak, or things he does not know.

8\. Upon ascension to power, the new ruler must meet with the prisoner to inform him of the change in leadership.

9\. Do not ask where he got the burn on his hand, or why it does not heal. He got it before this list was compiled and has not healed yet.

10\. The prisoner glows, especially his eyes. Do not look into his eyes.

11\. Do not visit him if the evening star is visible from the tower. He will be volatile, either angry or despairingly sorrowful.

12\. Ask his opinion before naming your children in order to avoid ill-fated names.

  * Yes, this is about Steward Túrin I and Steward Túrin II.
  * This is also about Míriel of Dol Amroth.



13\. Go to him if you cannot use the palantír, he can help.

14\. He can teach you many things. Do not abuse this, and try to give him something in return.

15\. Do not offer to release him, and definitely do not ask if he would like to be released, for he may accept.

16\. If you see him in a dream, go to him the next day, but keep a blade close by.

_Theories_

  * He's bound to the tower by magic.
    * By the wizards?
    * The wizards don't know he's here.
      * Mithrandir does but he won't tell us anything.
  * He's guarding something.
    * There's nothing in his room or the tower, King Atanatar.
  * If he leaves, something very bad will happen.
  * If he leaves, he will _do_ something very bad.
  * He's Tar-Minyatur's father, we know he was part elf.
    * Then why is he in jail? Clearly King Narmacil didn't think this through.
    * We have at least three different physical descriptions of his father from old poetry, all with different hair colors, but the prisoner does fit one.
      * Namely the description _“singer of the mighty voice / raven-dark.”_
      * He certainly doesn’t fit _“flame-haired / elf of the one hand / once-king.”_
      * Or _“mariner blest, half-elven / of radiance like the golden-tree,”_ for that matter.
    * To be fair, the dark-haired one is generally considered the most likely to actually be his father, as we know Tar-Minyatur had dark hair and grey eyes, which is how that person is described.
  * He chooses to stay, he could leave if he wanted to. It's not exactly a secure cell.
    * There are signs drawn on the walls to limit his power, though.
  * He used to sail the ship of the Evening Star, but coveted its light and tried to steal it so now he's in jail.
    * The ship of the Evening Star is a children's story, not real, Steward Dior.
      * Oh, and I suppose the injury on his hand is a burn from touching the star?
      * And maybe he came to Middle Earth from the Undying Lands! Steward Dior, stop reading fairy tales.
    * Why would he be imprisoned _here_ for that?
    * There is an old record that says the star is Tar-Minyatur's father.
      * Steward Hallas has no idea what he's talking about.
    * Boats don't fly, Steward Dior. What's next, someone in a flying boat killed a dragon so big that its fall destroyed a mountain range?
  * We have no record of him because his land was lost, like Numenor.
    * Please shut up, Steward Dior.
  * He's wanted by the elves for severe crimes, chooses imprisonment here over their justice.
    * He probably murdered someone (there’s no other reason for him to have been imprisoned for so long).



**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yay, first chapter! please leave a comment and/or kudos, and possibly some ideas on more fun superstitions for the Stewards and the people of Minas Tirith :)
> 
> i'm on tumblr at @jaz-the-bard


	2. Curiosity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Faramir climbs a tower.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yay chapter 2!
> 
> this chapter has the first of my original songs in it, so i made a recording of myself singing it (on my phone so like... it doesn't sound great) and you can find it [here](https://soundcloud.com/user-129902882/seven-stars-of-numenor)
> 
> faramir is trans and there's nothing you can do about it. it's not plot relevant but i love him.
> 
> silm notes:  
> -hey remember that time elrond and his twin brother got kidnapped???  
> -basically their mom had a shiny rock so the dudes who wanted the shiny rock did some murders and kidnapped elrond and elros, and then ended up adopting them. the shiny rock is currently the evening star.  
> -the story the jailbird tells is a p popular fanfic premise where baby e&e run away from their kidnap dads and have to be rescued. i have read 5+ fics with this premise and never get tired of it  
> -elros founded numenor  
> -hey you know who else had a star sigil? the dad of the guys who adopted e&e. and there were 7 brothers. so i'm just saying,,  
> -the other story is just beren and luthien but without names

There was singing from the southeast tower of the citadel.

There was  _ always _ singing from the southeast tower of the citadel.

Faramir was six years old, and bored, and he had heard the rumors before:

_ If children don't behave, the Tower-Singer will steal them. _

_ If you sing back to the Jailbird, you will fall into his enchantment. _

_ If the light in the tower goes out, Minas Tirith will fall. _

But little Faramir had nothing to do that day, and he knew with the certainty of childhood that there was nothing that could hurt him within the walls of the city, and he wanted to know why the eight-pointed star that marked this tower looked different from all the other ones that decorated every inch of Minas Tirith, and maybe if he were to climb it he would find out. Boromir was busy, and their father was busy, and whoever was supposed to be watching Faramir had lost him in the library archives.

In short, Faramir went to meet the Jailbird.

Faramir climbed the tower. And climbed the tower. And climbed the tower. It was so  _ tall, _ was he ever going to reach the top?

And just as he wondered that, he reached a door. There was a list of some kind next to it, but he didn't care. He turned the handle and went in.

The room was divided in two by steel prison bars. The part Faramir was in was small and contained only a chair, while the rest was essentially a one-room home, with musical instruments and a number of scattered books.

By the window sat what appeared to be some kind of elf, singing out over the city, with a bird perched on his hand.

The elf turned when the door opened, saying, "I was not expecting a visit, what do you--" He saw Faramir, and his face softened. "Are you lost, little Faramir? You shouldn't be here."

"How do you know my name?"

The elf hummed. "Your father introduced me to you when you were very young. And your older brother, too. You were an adorable baby."

Faramir pouted. "I am not adorable. Who are you, anyway?"

"Oh, I am no one, son of Denethor. My name has long been lost to time, but folk call me Tower-Singer, or Jailbird." He made a face. "As long as it is not 'jail-crow,' or 'nightingale,' for those names belong to others."

"Okay." Faramir paused. He wasn't quite used to being called "son of Denethor" yet, though it had been months ago he had announced that he was not, in fact, a girl, and had been reintroduced to the city as the Steward's second son. "You are very old, are you not? And you know lots of stories?”

“Yes, indeed.”

“Can you tell me a story from a long time ago?"

The Jailbird laughed. "Of course, have a seat."

Faramir sat.

"Once upon a time, there were two little elflings, as bright as the stars in the sky, and they were twins..."

“Is something bad going to happen to them? I like stories with happy endings,” said Faramir. He didn’t like stories where everyone died.

“If nothing bad ever happened, it would not be much of a story, would it? But they will be fine, I promise.”

“Okay.”

“Now these star-twins were beloved by all the people they met, and everyone wanted to keep them safe. But young ones -- and they were about your age at the time -- like to wander and have adventures, and do not like being confined to one place for any reason. So they decided to escape their house and run away.”

Faramir could tell that there was more to it than that, but he had decided to be a good listener and not interrupt, like his tutors told him.

“So they ran off into the woods, and they had a wonderful time playing in the trees and splashing in the brook. But they lived in a dangerous place and a dangerous time, and there were orcs about.”

Faramir gasped. He had never seen an orc, but he knew how terrible they were.

"Quite so! And the children were afraid, for nightfall was nearing and they knew not the way back, but they heard the orcs. So the star-twins sought a place to hide, and found a little cave. But the orcs had heard them, and followed the sound, and soon they came to the mouth of the cave where the children hid, blocking out the light from the setting sun and casting frightening shadows."

"Oh no! Did anyone come to save them?" said Faramir. He knew the Jailbird had said this story had a happy ending, but it didn't seem like it was going to.

"Yes, for at the last moment, an elf appeared from the trees, tall and with a head of blazing red hair. With his sword, he defeated the orcs as the children cried with relief, as he cared for the elflings and would not see them harmed. Then he brought them back to their house, where they were welcomed back, for as I said, the star-twins were beloved. After that day, the children were both better supervised and taught to defend themselves, in case they ever found themselves in danger again."

Faramir applauded. "That was a good story," he said, but something still bothered him. "Why did they run away in the first place, though?"

The elf went distant for a moment. "They did not like their place of residence, nor their red-haired guardian. But they had no one else." He shook his head as if to clear it. "But that is another tale altogether. Would you like to hear a song?"

Faramir bounced up and down. "Yes! Your singing is so pretty, I can hear it from anywhere in the city. Can you sing a song about Númenor?"

"Certainly! Though I would not have guessed that you would pick such a topic. Are you a scholar, young Faramir?"

"I want to be someday! But Father says I have to be a soldier so I can fight against the Enemy," said Faramir. He did not want to be a soldier, only learn new things all the time until he knew absolutely everything.

"It is important to fight the Shadow, and to know how to defend yourself, but not everyone must be a soldier. I am sure he will see that. Now, how about that song?" The elf pulled a harp from its place by the wall and situated himself on his chair to play it.

He sang:

_ "The seven stars and seven stones, _

_ The five-point isle of Númenor. _

_ With wings upon his silver crown, _

_ Its founding king, Tar-Minyatur. _

_ It shimmered in the azure sea: _

_ The Isle of Gift, the sunset-land. _

_ The holy mountain standing tall _

_ Above the beach of golden sand. _

_ Upon the starwards isle there grew _

_ Nimloth the Fair, the tree of kings. _

_ The Morning Star shone brightest there _

_ O'er Westernesse, on swan-white wings. _

_ O seven stars of Númenor! _

_ Protect and guide your children here _

_ In Middle-Earth, as once you did _

_ Our parents watch, in yesteryear." _

"That was beautiful," said Faramir, clapping, when the elf finished the song. "Did you write it?"

"I'm afraid not. It was written soon after the Fall of Númenor, and I learned it then."

Faramir nodded. "Can you tell me another story?"

"Of course, Faramir. Once upon a time there was an elven princess, the most beautiful of all the children of Eru, and her name was Nightingale..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you liked it! :)
> 
> i'm on tumblr at @jaz-the-bard
> 
> please leave a comment and/or kudos, they really make my day!!!


	3. Learning and Growing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Faramir grows up via montage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is illustrated by the incredible [adanedhel](https://adanedhel.tumblr.com/) who made [this incredible art](https://adanedhel.tumblr.com/post/618786815257788416/green-finch-linnet-bird) of maglor in the tower!!!
> 
> this au (i think i've mentioned this before but hey) involves a lot more knowledge being lost and Men being way more isolationist than in canon, which you'll see more in the denethor sections later.
> 
> the fairytale in this chapter is basically the same as in my fic Story-Telling Wanderer so if you want to hear the whole thing you can read it there! our tower boy is the second of the seven sons, the musician
> 
> silm notes:  
> -quenya is an old elf language that isn't in use in middle earth, tower boy has a very distinctive accent in it that involves using þ instead of s in some places and manifests as a lisp  
> -tar-minyatur was elros, founder of numenor and brother of elrond, who decided to be mortal  
> -ósanwe is elf telepathy though technically anyone with an aptitude can do it  
> -the star of high hope is the morning/evening star, one of elros and elrond's dads

Time passed, as it is wont to do, and still Faramir visited the Jailbird. It became a routine of his, especially when his father was displeased with him or inordinately favored Boromir no matter what Faramir did. But the Tower-Singer treated him almost as a son.

* * *

“I would like to hear some real true stories, ones about the Elder Days,” said eight-year-old Faramir, out of the blue.

“Even if they do not have happy endings?” said the Jailbird, who had on more than one occasion heard his tirade about how stories should end happily, pausing in his harp playing.

“History usually doesn’t, and I want to study history.”

The Jailbird smiled. “Then let me tell you a true story, but be warned, it is unhappy."

Faramir grinned.

"This tale is a long one, so settle in. I will tell parts of it to you in more detail when you are older,” the elf said. “Once upon a time, in the Undying Lands far to the west, there was a prince, and he had seven sons...”

* * *

“Faramir, would you like to learn Quenya? It may not be in use nowadays, but it can be helpful for those studying ancient history”

“Yes!” cried ten-year-old Faramir, jumping out of his chair in excitement.

“Lovely, I shall teach you. But you said you were having trouble with your sword forms, too, so bring a practice sword up next time, that I may help you with it.”

Faramir made a face at the mention of his least favorite activity, sword training. He wondered why the rules outside the door said to ask the Jailbird for help rarely and always give things in return. It was polite to do so, yes, but so far he had been glad to teach Faramir everything he wanted to know, and seemed grateful to have the company. He seemed to like teaching.

“Fine. At least they let me wear the light armor for training since Boromir outgrew it.”

“The ‘light armor?’ What’s that?”

“Oh, it’s some fancy mithril thing,” said Faramir, waving a hand. “But it is child-sized, for some reason.”

“That belonged to a child I once knew!!” the Jailbird laughed. “I am surprised it survived this long! There was another one, too, for his brother. I wonder where that’s got to?”

(Many miles away, Bilbo held his mithril shirt and reminisced about his adventure. It was a lovely little mathom, but no one had ever explained to him why such small armor had been crafted in the first place.)

* * *

“This is my brother, Boromir,” said twelve-year-old Faramir.

The elf bowed. “A pleasure to meet you, Boromir.”

“And you, Tower-Singer. Thank you for taking care of Faramir,” said Boromir, bowing in return.

Faramir was a little upset at that. He wasn’t a  _ baby, _ and he didn’t need looking after, no matter what Boromir said.

“It is my pleasure. You are both welcome to visit whenever you wish,” said the Jailbird. “Now, I believe I said it was time for you both to learn battle strategy?”

Boromir nodded, nearly vibrating with excitement.

* * *

“It is almost as if I have gained two more sons, you are here so often! But try that healing song again, you’ve almost got it.”

“I’ve been meaning to ask, why is it that you do not want elves knowing about you? I am sure your son who is still around would want to see you,” said seventeen-year-old Faramir, who was doing his best to learn Songs of Power.

The elf went silent. “...He does not. I care for him deeply, and that is why you must believe me when I say he is happier having me as an unpleasant memory than as a present father.”

“I cannot see how; you are a better father to Boromir and me than ours is,” muttered Faramir. His father had once again berated him for spending so much time up the tower, but made no effort to spend time with him or give him something better to do, which he did with Boromir. He had caught the words “elven enchantment” spoken to one of the advisors.

“Maybe I have learned from my mistakes,” said the Jailbird, “and I am doing better now, and that’s why you children like me.”

Faramir grinned. “You can keep telling yourself that if you wish.”

“Have I ever told you how much you remind me of Tar-Minyatur? Studious, and yet so very convinced of your own wit.”

"Who's Boromir, then?"

"Tar-Minyatur's brother. Stubborn, devoted, and absolutely certain he will never die."

"I think both of us will take those descriptions as compliments," said Faramir.

The Jailbird sighed. "I knew you would."

* * *

Twenty-one-year-old Faramir rushed up the tower in a panic and flung open the door. The birds on the windowsill scattered at his approach.

"What's wrong?" asked the Jailbird, putting aside the lute he had been playing.

"I--" Faramir gasped for breath. "My father is sending me to train with the Rangers. I don't mind that, really, but Father did not say anything about it, and I somehow know he means to."

"Foresight," breathed the elf. "Or a gift for ósanwe, or more likely both. It does run in the family."

"Can you help me?"

"Neither is my strong suit, I'm afraid, though I've had long practice at  _ interpreting _ visions, so I am no adequate teacher. But did you not say there is a wizard about?"

"Yes, Mithrandir. Could he help?"

The Jailbird hummed. "I would be surprised if he could not. I'm sure there are treatises on the subject in the Quenya section of the library. And Boromir will need training, too, for I do not doubt he shares this gift with you."

"Has he come to you about it?"

"No, but call it intuition," he said with a smile. "And Gandalf -- Mithrandir -- knows I am here already, so you may tell him I sent you."

Faramir nodded. "I will speak with him. But may I stay here for a time?"

"Of course, you need not ask."

Faramir sat down. "Did you know, the people of the city have devised a fortune-telling system based on what you are singing?"

“Really?” said the Jailbird, delighted. “You shall have to take notes on the particulars so that I may be as inaccurate as possible.”

* * *

“What are those symbols on the walls and ceiling?” asked twenty-six-year-old Faramir.

“Oh, those?” said the Jailbird, looking up. “Some of them keep me from being seen through farsight or in the memories of others through mind reading -- those ones up there.” He pointed as he described them. “The signs next to the door and windows are binding sigils to keep me from escaping. The stars are the symbol of my family; I suppose they are meant to remind people who I am.”

Faramir privately thought that they looked rather a lot like the Númenórean star plastered all over Gondor, and perhaps that similarity was why everyone had forgotten the Jailbird’s identity, but he held his tongue.

“There are a few scattered around that limit my power, to make sure I’m not a danger to visitors. Their placement was wise, because if I truly desired to escape, I could break the binding runes. But that would require far more magic than I am currently capable of performing.”

“Can you teach me how to make sigils?” said Faramir, sidestepping the discussion of possible escape as always.

“Of course.”

* * *

"We leave for Osgiliath tomorrow," said thirty-year-old Faramir. "We will miss you."

"And I will miss the both of you," said the Jailbird, holding Boromir and Faramir's hands through the bars. "Take care of each other out there."

"We will visit when we are making our reports here," said Boromir reassuringly.

The Jailbird wiped his eyes. "I shall have to play a song to see you off. Whichever one people have decided means good luck."

The brothers each received a kiss on the forehead. Despite their great height, the elf was still taller even than Boromir, and had to bend slightly.

"May the Star of High Hope watch over you!" he said instead of goodbye.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading!
> 
> if you want more stuff about how elves appear to humans when they're no longer normal, check out "Hungry Eye, Ancient Soul" which is a new fic by secretlythranduil that i helped brainstorm!
> 
> please leave a comment and/or kudos!!! :)


	4. Obligatory Dream Sequence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we make fun of the "Seek for the Sword that was Broken" poem because, let's face it, it's bad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok so this isn't actually the only dream sequence, i titled the chapter before i wrote all of maglor's guilt-induced dreams, but this is the only canon one so it holds
> 
> also the "seek for the sword that was broken" thing is just an awful poem so everyone who hears it has to insult it, sorry
> 
> silm notes:  
> -irmo is the vala (basically a god) of dreams  
> -the Doom of the Noldor (aka doom of mandos) was a curse/prophecy laid by námo, another vala, on a group of elves who committed kinslaying (elf murder)  
> -most of it was a curse upon the house of fëanor, our tower boy's dad  
> -the story that tower boy references at the end is just the silmarillion, but like, condensed and mostly just about the High Kings of the Noldor

Faramir dreamed.

Clouds and shadows grew in the east, just as they always did in the waking world, and a small light shone in the opposite direction. He heard no voice, as such, but words were imparted to him all the same, sounding as plaintive and desperate as words can sound with no one speaking them.

And Faramir woke up.

He had become skilled at understanding prophetic dreams since he had first started having them, and this was clearly one. The poem it had recited was... less than stellar, and he had been trained in art by an elf who had been singing more or less continuously for approximately three thousand years, so he was confident in his analysis.

He had also had a vision of Sauron's forces attacking Osgiliath in four days, and had little patience for more prophecies.

"Boromir," he said, jostling his brother. "Boromir, wake up."

"Hmm? What is it?" mumbled Boromir groggily.

"I had another prophetic dream. It is not about the attack, no need to worry, but it had a poem."

"Oh, the ones with the poems are the worst." Boromir tended not to get dreams and visions nearly as often as his brother, but the particularly important ones had a nasty habit of bleeding over. The ones with cryptic poetry were, unfortunately, always important.

"It wasn't even a good poem. Let me write it down for you before I forget the words." He scrambled for something to write with and jotted down the poem on some paper.

Boromir looked at it. "That really is an awful poem. I have no idea what it means."

Faramir sighed. Boromir was usually a genius at dream interpretation, but not this time. "After the battle, when we go to report, I shall show it to Father and our other father."

"They would both throw a fit if they knew you called them that," said Boromir.

"I never specified which was which."

"Exactly, brother dearest."

They exchanged smiles and went about their day, preparing the ruins of Osgiliath to withstand Sauron's forces or, in case they lost, break further so the Enemy could not use it as a stronghold. They had already arranged supplies to destroy the bridge if it came to that.

* * *

That night, Faramir had the dream again.

The next, Boromir had it as well.

In fact, the brothers were forced to listen to the poem every night until Sauron's attack.

But on the fourth day, the battle came.

* * *

Osgiliath's defenders had expected the invasion. That did not mean they were guaranteed a victory, indeed, they had to abandon the eastern part of Osgiliath.

But with their forewarning, losses were less heavy than they could have been, and the bridge was neatly destroyed, stopping any of Sauron’s forces from gaining ground or attacking their retreat with the wounded.

And there was one thing Faramir had not foreseen: a shadowy and terrifying specter, dressed in black and riding a great warhorse. From it had come a sickening aura of evil power, enough to cause several soldiers to fall unconscious from its fear-inducing presence alone.

“I think I need to carry this report back in person,” said Faramir, already dreading the disappointed look in his father’s eyes.

“You are not going alone,” said Boromir in a tone that brooked no argument. “I refuse to let you face Father’s disapproval by yourself. And he has to hear about the dream, and so does our tutor.” They referred to the Jailbird as such in public, for they did not wish to arouse suspicion, and the title was accurate enough though it did not capture the right feeling.

Faramir sighed. “All right, but please, just this once, do not be heroic. You do not get to volunteer to go on this prophesied quest without thinking. And we leave tomorrow morning, because you are much better at healing songs and there are a lot of injured soldiers who need help tonight.”

“Deal, little brother.”

* * *

They returned to Minas Tirith.

As expected, their father blamed Faramir for everything, but was also disappointed in Boromir for “failing to make up for his younger brother’s lapse in judgement.” He had refused to believe anything about Faramir’s dream until Boromir revealed that it had come to him as well, and only been able to tell them that Imladris was the valley of Rivendell, where the elf-lord Elrond reigned. The long scolding left both brothers fighting back tears, but finally they were dismissed to go think on what they had done.

After an hour or so of weeping into his brother’s arms, over both the battle and the harsh admonishment, Faramir went up the southeast tower. The rules outside the door said not to visit when the evening star was visible, which it was at the time, but over the years he had found that the rules had never really applied to him.

He knocked on the door.

“Come in,” came the musical voice of the Jailbird.

He did so.

“Faramir, how good to see you! But I see all is not well. What happened?”

Faramir slumped into his chair with a sigh. “We lost the eastern part of Osgiliath, and Father blames me, as usual. I had another dream, and Boromir had it too. And as if that were not enough, the dream contained a terrible poem.” He recited it.

The Jailbird winced to hear the poem. “Lord Irmo needs practice, it appears. But I am sorry your father is so awful to you. I think it will do you good to go on this quest and have some time away from him. Was he able to interpret any of the dream?”

“I mean, the bit about Mordor growing in strength was obvious enough. He said Imladris is a valley far to the north, ruled by an elf named Elrond.”

The Jailbird froze for a moment, eyes wide, before settling back into his seat. “Then you must go, and it must be you, for I have met Elrond Halfelven and you are the best choice to speak with him. He is a wise elf, and an old one, and will surely know what to do.”

“You are wise and old as well, Tower-Singer. Is he older than you?”

“No, he is much younger than I am. He was a child when I first met him. But, crucially, he has not been in a tower for thousands of years, and has many others among the Wise behind him, whereas I only have Gandalf and I am avoiding him.” He changed the subject. “Now, did the word ‘doom’ in your dream seem to have a capital letter?”

“It did,” said Faramir. “What does that portend?”

“Were this several Ages ago, I should know with certainty, for there was a Doom laid upon many then,” mused the elf. “But it has been lifted for the most part, and I do not think it applied to Elrond at all except by association, so that cannot be it. I shall write down for you the text of the Doom I speak of, in case it is any help, but you must be alert should any new prophecies or curses come about. But the name of the House it fell hardest on should not again be written or spoken, so I shall not share it.”

Faramir took the slip of parchment and read it. He paled. “A heavy curse this is indeed,” he said. “We have lost much knowledge of the past, but I shudder to think that a prophecy of such import could be forgotten, even by those exempt, as Men are.”

“It is not something that any would take joy in remembering,” said the Jailbird with a shrug. “I suspect quite a bit of the First Age and its immediate aftermath was forgotten apurpose, by elves and Men alike. Despite Boromir’s and your insistence otherwise, the Tragedy of the Elvenkings is not exactly an appropriate bedtime story.”

“Say what you like,” Faramir laughed. “I must speak to Boromir and figure out a plan, but I shall return soon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tune in next time for the obligatory map chapter, which you probably knew was coming!
> 
> please leave a comment and/or kudos, they really do keep me writing!!! :)
> 
> also i'm taking prompts for kidnap dads on my tumblr @jaz-the-bard, so go check those out!


	5. Goodbye Gifts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we find out more about my elfdoption lore, and Maglor has Guilt Crisis #1.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lmao sorry this isn't the map chapter, that's ch6, i got confused
> 
> silm notes:  
> -some elves are glowy bc they saw the light that came before the sun and moon, like our tower boy and galadriel. i think it can make other people's eyes glow imperceptibly because that would be cool  
> -the Queen Broideress is Míriel Þerindë, a great craftswoman and mother of fëanor, also she died  
> -he's referencing that stupid unbreakable Oath he made and that time he stole a magic rock and it burned him REALLY badly  
> -that's what the tale boromir references is about, tower boy and his six brothers  
> -Þ/þ is the thorn, pronounced like the "th" in "with"  
> -tower boy (and his family, and as a consequence elrond and faramir) speak a form of quenya where some "s" sounds are instead "þ." the most important here is that sauron is þauron.

Steward Denethor, son of Steward Ecthelion, paced in his study.

Faramir had had another prophetic dream. Denethor was disinclined to trust it, because Faramir's prediction of the attack on Osgiliath had not enabled him to hold the city, but Boromir had apparently had the dream as well. As much as it pained Denethor to admit it, his eldest had much less talent for Seeing, and might be unable to use the palantír the way he himself did.

But since this meant Boromir was a steadfast warrior, and not distracted by mental pursuits as was Faramir, Denethor could live with it.

He sighed. Sometimes he wondered where he went wrong raising that boy. Probably when he had first let him run off and meet the Jailbird; Faramir had been young and had probably fallen to the elf's enchantments immediately. Denethor had introduced both him and Boromir to the Tower-Singer as infants, of course, and that was all well and good; nothing had happened. Even climbing the tower again to inform the Jailbird of Faramir's reintroduction had caused no problems.

But after the day Faramir had disappeared, and come back with the tiniest glimmer of reflected light in his eyes, everything had changed. At least he had never been convinced to actually  _ free _ the Jailbird.

Denethor shook his head to clear it. He would not deny this prophecy, not if it had come to both of his sons, but he would not risk Boromir. Faramir was already enthralled; let the elves have him, if they must, but they would not steal both of his children.

* * *

Two days later, Boromir and Faramir went up the southeast tower to tell the Jailbird of their plans and say farewell.

He welcomed them, as always, and said, “What have you decided, then?”

Boromir spoke first. “I will return to leading Gondor’s armies despite what Father has called my ‘most disappointing failure yet,’ and so I will be between here and Osgiliath for the foreseeable future. Faramir, though...”

Faramir took over. “I will be heading north to Imladris to seek Lord Elrond’s counsel and hopefully avert whatever Doom the dream spoke of.”

“I thought that might be the case,” said the Jailbird. “And I have for you some going-away presents that I hope will keep you safe.” He opened a chest and pulled out some beautifully embroidered fabric.

“I made you each a cloak while you were away in Osgiliath. I may not be the Queen Broideress I have told you of, but they are made to bring good luck to their wearers and keep their spirits up.” He handed the green one to Faramir, and the indigo to Boromir. “And here is a hair clasp for each of you, with my family’s sigil upon it.”

Faramir looked at the clasp in his hand. It had an eight-pointed rayed star upon it, just like the one that marked the base of the tower.

The Jailbird continued speaking. “The sigil is embroidered into the cloaks as well, though it is more subtle. There is little power left in that sign, but it may enable me to protect you if you wear it, or are in a place marked by it. Though,” he added as an afterthought, “perhaps do not wear the hair clasps around elves, for they may realize I am here.”

Faramir’s jaw nearly dropped. The Jailbird rarely spoke of his family, and most of what he said was vague and contradictory, but here he was placing his House’s sigil on two Men, declaring them to be under his protection.

(Faramir and Boromir did not know that the giving of marked heirlooms, such as the clasps, and craft made by hands, like the cloaks, alongside the promise of protection, practically constituted adoption.)

“Now, Faramir, I know you will be meeting elves, and I know you are aware that I do not wish to be revealed to them. But if you absolutely have to, Lord Elrond is trustworthy. Imladris is almost certainly by a river, though I do not know its exact location. Boromir, dear, do remember to be careful. I am so very proud of the both of you, I hope you know that.”

"I'll miss you," said Faramir. He and Boromir gathered the Jailbird into an awkward three-person hug through the bars, as they had done many times before.

Boromir said, "And I will miss you both as well. But somehow I know that this parting, each of us going our respective ways (or staying, as the case may be) has already averted some unlucky fate that would befall if we chose differently." Foresight rang in his words.

"Then we have made the right decision," said Faramir.

The Jailbird smiled and took their hands. "One last bit of advice from an old singer, for though I cannot see the future as you do, I can tell your dream is part of something greater: do not make promises you cannot keep, and never take a magical thing that is not yours."

"I think we figured that out the  _ first _ time you told us the Tale of the Seven Sons," said Boromir.

“Oh, hush. Now, good fortune go with you and may the Star of High Hope light your path. Get some sleep.”

* * *

The morning after the parting conversation with his surrogate father, Faramir put on the green cloak and his golden hair clasp, while Boromir put on their counterparts. Wearing them put to rest any doubts about their enchantment; both felt magic settle around them as they donned the cloaks.

Boromir glanced at Faramir, who needed none of his talent for mind-speech to know what his brother meant.  _ This is a powerful spell, to feel so safe, and with his family’s sigil, too. _

Faramir nodded mutely. He had a feeling that every ounce of strength in the enchantment would be sorely needed.

They rode out of the city together, and soon said their farewells as their roads diverged.

Faramir looked at his road. He took a deep breath and headed north.

* * *

Back in Minas Tirith, Maglor Fëanorion worried.

He had never meant to get quite so attached to those children (not after the last time he had raised two boys), but he'd done it anyway. And they were so much  _ like _ his other not-sons that it was difficult to bear at times.

Faramir was in temperament the double of Elros, complete with powerful foresight, and looked like him as well, though he kept his hair longer, while Boromir was Elrond in all but appearance.

(People tended to think that Elrond was the studious one, which was true in a way, as immortality did lend itself to learning, but he learned like Boromir did, for usefulness of knowledge. Elros learned like Faramir: a hunger to know everything and everything and everything.)

It always hurt to think of his former hostages (they were not his children, he reminded himself, no matter how much he loved them), though Elros had left Arda and he had not seen Elrond in millennia. The separation was a constant ache, but he knew his undisclosed imprisonment in Gondor was the right thing. Elrond certainly hated him, and no elves needed a relic of the painful past reminding them of all they had been through. At least here he could be of use to Elros's descendants as a form of weregild while he served his infinite sentence. That was some comfort.

(He hadn't fought when Elendil had arrested him and placed him in the tower, soon after the founding of Gondor. If anyone had a right to jail him, and many did, it would be the children he had kidnapped and their descendants -- he might not have killed the twins, but they were his victims all the same. But most of the people who had known both his identity and location had been almost immediately killed in battle with Sauron or directly afterwards, leaving the truth of the tower dweller forgotten.)

...What had he been  _ thinking, _ all but adopting Boromir and Faramir as wards of the House of Fëanor?

It would enable him to guard them from afar, yes, but so would declaring them to be under the House's protection. The gifts had been going too far. Suppose Elrond recognized the mirror of what he and Elros had been given when they had been bound to Fëanor's accursed house and bloodline? He might realize--

Well, if he realized Maglor was alive and in Gondor, there was nothing to be done about it. He would simply assume that Maglor had kidnapped another child to replace the ones that had escaped him so he could keep playing at a mockery of fatherhood, and Elrond would be disgusted at his actions and upset at having to remember his own captivity, and have to come to Gondor to convince the Steward to have Maglor killed or at the very least delivered in chains to Valinor. But if it came to that, Elrond would certainly take in Faramir out of sympathy, so he would still be safe. Maglor could only hope no one found him out.

But his main worry was for Faramir and Boromir. Þauron had been steadily growing in power, and Boromir held the front line against him while Faramir undertook a dangerous journey to unravel an ominous warning. Maglor had taught them everything he could, and given them what protection he was capable of, but what if it wasn't enough?

He sang that day of death and Doom, and the people of Minas Tirith shuddered as they looked east towards Mordor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next up is the obligatory map chapter, for real this time
> 
> please leave a comment and/or kudos if you liked it! they mean so much to me


	6. Journey to Imladris

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Faramir goes on a road trip.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok this one is the obligatory map chapter, i'm not actually sorry for this
> 
> plus the first hint of boromir/theodred bc it's just such a quality ship
> 
> -fëa means soul, and elves are known to be deeply connected to theirs. According to LaCE, elf babies need some kind of soul sustenance from their parents  
> -ost-in-edhil was the city of celebrimbor, maglor's nephew and maker of the rings of power. he wouldn't tell sauron where the 3 elf rings were so sauron destroyed his city and killed him, like, *really* gruesomely  
> -the movies are canon in that everything especially rivendell is freaking covered in 8pt stars  
> -glorfindel!!! blonde balrog slayer, died killing said balrog, eventually came back to life as elves sometimes do but uniquely got sent to middle earth
> 
> also right after this i'm publishing a new chapter of Hungry Eye, Ancient Soul which is a collaboration w secretlythranduil, if you liked denethor's part of the previous chapter you'll love it

> _ "Adoption is a rare and tricky thing for elves. Elflings are born with a connection to their parents' fëar, and through those bonds are they nourished and protected as they grow. _
> 
> _ Eventually the House they are born into claims the elfling as one of its own and protects them, whether as the child of a vassal or a leader. When an adult, an elf can choose to align themself with a different House and bind themself to it. _
> 
> _ Adoption has to replicate these bonds in order to properly care for the elfling's fëa. _
> 
> _ The Noldorin adoption tradition requires that the parent give to the child some form of heirloom and something the parent has made. Something reusable or long-lasting, like clothing, is preferred, but food is acceptable. Sometimes the heirloom and the handmade gift are the same, if the parent has nothing handed down to give. _
> 
> _ The child has to accept the gifts, and the parent promises to love, care for, and protect the child, and then their fëar can be linked. _
> 
> _ In practice, given how delicate an elfling's fëa tends to be, the link usually comes first, to keep the child from fading after losing their birth parents." _

-an excerpt from  _ Nontraditional Familial Relations Among the Eldar, _ anonymously published S.A. 2042.

* * *

Faramir was in a hurry, yes. The prophecy had seemed rather time-sensitive to him, and Imladris was far indeed from Minas Tirith. But that was no reason to be incautious or travel without stealth.

He traveled openly enough through Rohan, as he had visited before and the Rohirrim were steadfast allies of Gondor, but told none of his purpose for traveling. He ran into Prince Théodred briefly, who asked after Boromir, and for news from the Oracle of Minas Tirith (as the Jailbird was known to the rulers of Rohan). Faramir replied that Boromir was well and the Oracle had no counsel, and Prince Théodred awkwardly said that that was good indeed before riding off with a blush tinting his face.

For the most part, his journey through Rohan was uninterrupted by many travelers, though he did hear rather ominous rumors about Théoden King and his advisor Grima, called Wormtongue. He would have to see if anything could be done about that, but the prophecy urged him on, through the Gap of Rohan.

Faramir looked north to Isengard as he stopped for the night. Great fires had been burning there all day and still appeared to be going. He wondered why the White Wizard would keep so many fires lit; surely no one needed so many of such size.

After passing the Fords of Isen, Faramir came to the ruins of the North-South Road, which had not been cared for in over a hundred years. He did not plan on following it for long, instead turning northwards through Dunland.

The southern Dunlendings had become increasingly hostile towards Rohan of late, but most of the region of rolling hills was easy to travel and sparsely populated, mostly by farmers. The further he traveled, the more friendly the rare folk he saw were. He helped a group of goat herders fend off some orcs, and they took care of him while he recovered from a sprained ankle.

He continued on foot, his horse having been killed in the fight. It would make the rest of the journey slower and more difficult, but having trained with Rangers, he was confident that he could reach Imladris safely, though not quickly.

Next, Faramir came to the ruin of Ost-in-Edhil, where an old bridge still stood over the Swanfleet river, where the trickle of the Sirannon met the Glanduin. Despite his misgivings regarding its structural integrity, he was able to cross it easily.

The remains of the city were few; it had been quite comprehensively destroyed in battle and time had crumbled down what was left. But there were a few walls and parts of buildings still standing, some of which were marked with the same star that adorned Faramir's hair clasp.

It felt strange to smile in the wreck of a once-great city, but smile he did. He was safe here, at least enough to stay the night without having to worry overmuch. This place seemed friendly to him, in a way, as if the city itself wished to keep him from harm.

When he slept that night, he dreamed of a magical forge where a set of three great and coveted wonders were crafted.

The next morning, he awoke more rested and clear-headed than he had been in many weeks, and continued onward.

No one really lived in Eregion anymore, though there were some Dúnedain living up in the Angle, the land between the rivers Mitheithel and Bruinen.

Faramir’s route took him north to the Bruinen, and then up along it towards Imladris.

Of course, he did not know exactly where Imladris was, as it was by all accounts a secret and hidden valley, but he would follow the river there as best he could, and hopefully he would either find the place or look lost enough for someone to take pity on him and lead him there. Surely he would not have been given a prophetic dream that sent him to a place he could never enter.

Surely.

But Faramir's worries proved unfounded: he had hardly realized how near he had drawn to Imladris, until he crested a hill and suddenly saw the valley spread out before him. Somehow he had simply known which way to go, and his feet had led him unerringly to the vale he sought.

With fresh hope kindled within him, Faramir entered Imladris.

He felt the border enchantments wash over him, which he had expected; the Jailbird had said they were a common practice in elven realms. But these almost seemed to  _ welcome _ him, oddly enough, though it was not quite the same as Ost-in-Edhil's protectiveness.

Faramir continued on, towards the buildings that lay nestled between waterfalls at the other side of the valley. It was a beautiful place, and he found himself walking at a slower pace to appreciate the view (and after a hundred and eight days on the road, he had grown weary indeed).

Soon he found a small track, which became a path, which became a proper road and led him down towards the settlement. It passed through an arch, which was decorated with the star he had seen in the ruins, the same that marked the Jailbird's tower and the clasp in his hair. In fact, there were several stars if he looked closer, and a large one patterned the entry courtyard of the largest building, which lay just past another gate, not far away.

Remembering the warning he had been given, Faramir removed the clasp from his hair and placed it in a pocket. He would have to find a less obtrusive way to wear it if he were to be here for any length of time.

With that, he took a deep breath and walked down into Imladris proper.

Standing in the courtyard, when he arrived, was a tall elf with long blond hair. Faramir was reminded of the Jailbird, for though the two elves differed greatly in appearance, both somehow glowed, especially their eyes, which seemed to be so filled with light that it came seeping out. In fact, one of the most prevalent superstitions among the people of Minas Tirith was that if the light in the southeast tower ever went out, the city would fall. But this elf shone like the sun in high summer, while the Tower-Singer's glow was more reminiscent of moonlight on the ocean or some such, a cooler and less vibrant light.

Faramir bowed in greeting.

The elf returned the bow and said, "Welcome to Imladris, Man of Gondor. My name is Glorfindel. I'm afraid you have caught us at a terribly hectic time, or someone would have escorted you here personally." He gestured for Faramir to come with him as he began walking. "May I ask what brought you to the valley? And pardon me, I have not yet asked your name."

Faramir followed. "I am Faramir, son of Steward Denethor. A prophetic dream told me to come here, through the use of a rather badly-written poem that I understood very little of."

"We've had word of a great number of strange happenings across the land recently. There is a council scheduled for the twenty-fifth to make sense of it all, if you should like to attend," said Glorfindel.

"I would indeed," said Faramir.

"In the meantime, let's get you settled." Glorfindel led Faramir to a guest room. "You can stay here for as long as you please, and on the desk is a map of the grounds so you do not get lost. But if you need anything, please do not hesitate to ask."

Faramir thanked him and, as soon as he left, flopped down onto the bed in exhaustion.

Tonight he would just clean off and then sleep. He could deal with everything else in the morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> he has arrived!
> 
> please comment and leave kudos if you liked it, and check out Hungry Eye, Ancient Soul! thanks for reading!!! :)


	7. New Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we finally meet Elrond and Aragorn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the moment you've been waiting for! elrond is here!  
> ...for part of it, but whatever
> 
> flower symbolism:  
> -honeysuckle: bonds of love
> 
> silm notes:  
> -'maglor' is actually a sindarin translation of the name in his native quenya, his full name is Makalaurë Kanafinwë Fëanárion in quenya  
> -galadriel literally changed her accent in quenya to use s instead of þ so she could spite her uncle fëanor  
> -bilbo wrote a song about earendil, elrond's dad who is a star, and it leaves out SO MUCH important information  
> -it's very hard to justify movie elrond's choice of where to hold the council but i like the idea that it's his Fighting Over Jewelry Courtyard used specifically for that purpose

Faramir was, at this point, fairly sure that his dream had wanted him to attend this council. Especially after meeting the halflings it had specifically mentioned (though they preferred the term hobbits). Mithrandir, too, was here, and agreed with his analysis.

The hobbits were a cheerful bunch, and the oldest one was a scholar who, like Faramir, studied the Elder Days. They had a wonderful time swapping stories and poems.

He also met Master Elrond, who said that his questions would certainly be answered at the council being held in a few days. He was a very pleasant person, who made Faramir feel even safer than all the stars did, but seemed to be harried at the present moment, so Faramir resolved not to bother him.

(And he was given free use of the library, where he planned to spend the next few days.)

Faramir did wander the settlement of Imladris for a time before going to the library, though; it was far too lovely a day to spend entirely indoors. So he walked through the gardens and open-air corridors, admiring the plants and the waterfalls.

It was in a secluded courtyard, one that Faramir doubted he could find again even with a map, that he found the statue.

It was old and worn, and covered in honeysuckle from a nearby arbor, but unmistakably depicted the Jailbird, wearing beautiful robes and holding a lyre.

Faramir stared at the sculpture. It couldn't be, could it? But the statue captured the Tower-Singer perfectly, down to the fond parental expression he had seen directed at himself or Boromir a thousand times. He did not notice at first, but a second glance revealed that written in very small tengwar at the base of the statue was a name.

_ Makalaurë, _ it read. There was another name and a patronymic afterward, he could see the  _ -ion, _ but the rest was nearly unreadable. The second name appeared to have a _ -fin- _ in the middle somewhere.

That hardly mattered, though. Faramir knew a piece of the Jailbird's  _ name. _ No one knew his name, and he never spoke of it, declaring it to be irrelevant and in any case lost to time. But someone here had not forgotten. The knowing almost felt like a breach of privacy, and yet he could not help but be intrigued.

Faramir decided to go visit the library and take his mind off this revelation.

* * *

Aragorn first met Faramir in the library, when he turned a corner and walked directly into someone engrossed in a book, sending them both to the floor.

"My apologies," said the stranger. "I'm afraid I became rather lost in my reading, and neglected to watch my path. I hope you are uninjured?" He pulled himself to his feet and offered a hand.

"I am well," said Aragorn, accepting the assistance. He picked up the book from where it had fallen and gave it a scrutinizing glance. It was a history of the later years of Númenor, which was not a strange choice, and entirely in Quenya, which was. "You speak Quenya?" he asked in that ancient tongue.

The other man replied in kind, taking the proffered book with a smile. "Yes, the folk at the Library back home were delighted to have another poor soul to force to organize the archives. My name is Faramir, by the way." His accent and dialect were so much like those of Elrond that Aragorn nearly did a double-take; the lisp alone would make Lady Galadriel throw a fit if she were to hear it.

(Lady Galadriel had been known to be glad for the ancient ban on the use of Quenya. Since the language had fallen out of use after the ban, she did not have to hear her son-in-law's  _ distinctive _ manner of speaking it.)

"I am Aragorn. It is a pleasure to meet you," he said.

* * *

Elrond did not know what to make of Faramir of Gondor.

He had walked directly into Imladris, despite never having been shown the way into the hidden vale, or apparently even having heard of the place before his prophetic dream. If the dream itself had told him the way, that would be one thing; Irmo was not a security breach, or at least not one that anything could be done about.

But according to his own account, the Steward's son had simply headed towards where he thought Imladris lay, and been completely right.

Beyond that, the enchantments Elrond used to protect his valley seemed to  _ welcome _ Faramir. He was, very distantly, Faramir's uncle, but it surprised him how easily the power of Vilya recognized the young man as a kinsman, or at least as someone under his protection, which was odd. He had promised to aid and shelter Isildur’s heirs, so another descendant of Isildur might have this effect, but the House of the Stewards was not particularly close in blood to the ruling line. Perhaps it was his relation to Aragorn, as a member of the Stewards' house. After all, Aragorn was both the future king of Gondor and the foster son of Elrond.

And then there was Faramir's strange body of knowledge. Judging by the tales he had told the hobbits (who had taken to him immediately), he had grown up hearing stories of the Elder Days, which, while having passed into myth, were generally forgotten among Men, excepting only a few tales.

(Which reminded him of the song Bilbo had written -- it was not a bad song, far from it, but it did bring up some none-too-pleasant memories, despite leaving out so many crucial details. Come to think of it, Faramir had reportedly recognized that story and questioned why so much had been omitted.)

On top of that, Faramir spoke fluent Quenya with a distinct lisp. Elrond supposed that there might be records of the old stories somewhere in the famed Library of Minas Tirith, and of course any books on Quenya would be Númenórean and therefore replicate Elros's heavy Fëanorian accent. Mithrandir knew him, and agreed that Faramir was simply a dedicated scholar.

But somehow the theory didn't seem right.

(He quashed the beginnings of hope that Faramir had met Maglor and been taught these things. There had been no sightings of him since the late Second Age, and there was no reason for him to resurface now.

And besides, Faramir would have  _ said _ something, wouldn't he? Surely Maglor would have asked that word of his well-being be sent to his son, even if he planned to continue wandering. Surely he had not forgotten Elrond, or decided he did not love him after all. Surely he had not chosen to avoid Elrond because he did not want to be his father anymore and decided to save them both the embarrassment of outright rejection.

Surely.)

Elrond pushed away these thoughts. It was time to begin the council, which was to be held in a comfortable courtyard decorated with eight-pointed stars on every available surface, which would hopefully be a friendly reminder to the participants not to start a fight over a piece of jewelry. Or it might  _ cause _ a fight, given the rumored curse of discord surrounding the symbol, but even then it would at least reveal who could and could not be trusted to deal with the One Ring.

He sighed. This council was going to end in a migraine, he could already tell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next up is Council of Elrond part 1!
> 
> please leave comments and kudos :)


	8. A Poetry Reading

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Council begins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello everyone! happy august! time to insult that poem i hate some more
> 
> silm notes:  
> -both isildur and narsil should use þ, clearly galadriel wrote the books on that bit of history  
> -in this story, narsil belonged to maedhros who gave it to elros

Faramir fidgeted in his seat. He had been to council meetings back in Minas Tirith, of course, but none had felt so high-stakes as this one, nor had they included quite so many elves and dwarves, or any hobbits at all, for that matter.

A good number of the elves seemed nervous, too, glancing around uncomfortably. But, being surrounded on all sides by the familiar star sigil, Faramir found himself relaxing. He spoke to one of the dwarves sitting to his right; all of them were apparently from Erebor.

Master Elrond stood to announce the commencement of the Council, and began by introducing everyone in the courtyard, one by one, so they could all be known to each other.

The hobbit Frodo Baggins was introduced as “being on a mission of great peril,” which did not differentiate him from the others in the room, most of whom had traveled dangerous roads to arrive, but Faramir caught a ripple of unease throughout the participants.

Faramir himself was introduced as “Faramir, son of Steward Denethor of Gondor, who brings a prophecy from Irmo.” The dwarves and some of the other Men (of which there were few) looked confused as to who Irmo was.

After everyone became more or less familiar with their fellow Council members, they began sharing their reason for coming.

The dwarves of Erebor had been harassed by a messenger of Sauron, asking for some kind of magic ring. Faramir knew about the Rings of Power, of course, and found this worrying. Sauron had not fooled anyone by calling the ring he sought a trifle, it clearly meant quite a lot to him, and that boded ill for anyone who stood between him and the piece of jewelry.

Master Elrond paused to explain the history of the Rings of Power, then called on Faramir to speak of Gondor.

Faramir stood.

“Thank you,” he said. “As you all know, I am Faramir of Gondor, son of Steward Denethor. My brother Boromir and I have been fending off increasingly frequent invasions of orcs and other foul creatures from Mordor, but our people grow weary and our allies few. In June, we were in Osgiliath when an attack came that forced us to abandon the eastern half of the city and destroy the bridge over the Anduin. This was unfortunate, but what we saw was more important: a great rider, all in black, whose very presence struck fear into all our hearts. Just days before the attack, I received a prophetic dream. I am no stranger to visions or true-dreams, but this one had a rhyming prophecy.”

He recited the poem while all of the poetically-inclined members of the Council winced.

“And so, after seeking my father’s counsel, I traveled here to seek answers to my dream and gather anything that might be known of the Black Rider,” Faramir concluded, and seated himself once more.

The elderly hobbit, Master Bilbo Baggins (who had apparently moved to Imladris some time ago) said, “I do hope there are answers about that forthcoming, for my nephew and his companions were chased here by several of those Riders.”

“I think I may answer a part of your riddle,” said Aragorn, pulling something from beside his chair. He laid upon a table what turned out to be an old sword in two pieces. “Here is the Sword-That-Was-Broken, Elendil’s blade shattered by Sauron and used by Isildur to cut the One Ring from the Enemy’s hand.”

Faramir’s tact warred with his inner historian. The historian won. “How came you by such a thing? By all accounts I have read, it was at some point lost after the death of Isildur.” He walked over to get a closer look.

(Yes, Faramir knew that “Isildur” was actually pronounced “Iþildur,” but the general convention outside of speaking Quenya was just a slight lisp on the “s,” which Aragorn had done as well.)

“No, it was passed down among the chieftains of the Dúnedain,” said Master Elrond. “Aragorn, son of Arathorn, is the heir of Isildur.”

Faramir filed that away to process later. “May I look at the sword?”

Aragorn did not seem to know what to do with that, but assented.

It was beautifully forged, dwarven in make and very old. Faramir hummed lightly as he examined it, the rest of the world fading away as it always did when he found a new object for his curiosity.  _ Made in... oh, mid-to-late First Age. I do not recognize the maker’s mark, but the name of the blade should be... _ “Narþil,” he read to himself.

He saw someone flinch out of the corner of his eye, but not who it was. He said, "This is a fine blade. It is called Narsil, yes? It is in remarkably good condition for its age and broken state."

Aragorn recovered from his awkwardness. "Yes, it is. I do not mean to sound vain, but I do believe your prophecy has something to do with me."

"I do not doubt it," said Faramir, returning the sword to the table and going back to his seat, deep in thought.

Master Baggins, the elder one, stood up and said, “You know, I wrote a little poem for dear Aragorn a while back, if anyone would like to hear it.”

No one said anything, which was fortunate, because Master Baggins did not look for permission. It was a good poem, one that Faramir would have much preferred to the one he actually got in his prophetic dream.

“Since you are already up, Master Bilbo, why don’t you tell us about that Ring of yours, the one that makes you invisible? You need not give us every detail, of course,” said Master Elrond, already sounding resigned to his Council becoming half productive meeting and half poetry reading.

“I would be delighted. It all began when I was lost in a cave...” he continued at length, sparing no detail. Every riddle of the riddle contest was recounted, as well as his thought process through each moment of the adventure, and a blow-by-blow report of every time he had used the Ring.

While he did not fall asleep, Faramir did let his mind wander a bit, only snapping back to focus when Frodo Baggins was asked to give his account of what happened after he was given the Ring, which turned out to be far more informative.

“And that Ring,” said Master Elrond, “is the very One Ring of the Enemy, also called Isildur’s Bane, for it led to his death.”

Faramir went cold. This was much worse than he had thought. Those Black Riders must be the Ringwraiths, then, which explained what had happened in Osgiliath. At least he now had the answer to his dream.

Mithrandir began reciting his tale of being captured by Saruman, and how he had figured out that Master Baggins’s ring was indeed the One Ring, but Faramir only half paid attention. He gave the wizard a look when he mentioned going to the Minas Tirith library archives, because the record he spoke of was not on public view, which meant he must have violated archive rules. “And I spoke to people in the city,” Mithrandir continued, “who said that Sauron has made multiple attacks on Osgiliath and surrounding areas since Faramir left, but Boromir is still alive and well, and they have repelled Sauron’s advances.”

So he had  _ definitely _ spoken to the Jailbird, whom Faramir knew to have an uncanny ability to be aware of the Enemy’s advances before a messenger reached the city, and tended to react by singing a specific song that every citizen of Minas Tirith now recognized.

“Now that we are all caught up,” said Master Elrond. “What shall we do about the Ring?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you liked it! please leave comments and kudos, and check out my crossover fic, The Woods in Winter, for some elured and elurin!


	9. Only One Option

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a plan is made, a lament is sung, and Maglor has guilt crisis #2.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> song time song time!!!
> 
> listen on soundcloud [here](https://soundcloud.com/user-129902882/sing-sorrow-for-the-stars) or on tumblr [here](https://jaz-the-bard.tumblr.com/post/625896506744061952/jazthebard-a-new-piece-for-my-fic-jailbird)
> 
> silm notes:  
> -glorfindel is suggesting two of the methods used for getting rid of the silmarils: maglor threw one into the sea, earendil and elwing (elrond's mom and dad) took one to valinor  
> -the volcano thing was how maglor's brother maedhros got rid of a silmaril, jumping into a chasm of lava while holding it  
> -there is in fact a preponderance of 8pt stars in osgiliath

Every participant of the Council went silent. Whether they had no ideas regarding what ought to be done about the Ring, or they simply did not want to be the first to voice theirs, Faramir could not tell.

Frodo Baggins spoke up first. “There is Tom Bombadil, who lives in the Old Forest. The Ring has no power over him, as my companions and I have seen, and he could guard it.”

“He could, but he would like as not forget he had the Ring, and lose it,” said Master Elrond. “And in any case Sauron would still search for it.”

“We could throw it in the ocean, then,” said Lord Glorfindel, earning some sort of not-quite-glare from Elrond and trying to look innocent. “Or send it over the Sea.”

“For several reasons, those are not options,” said Master Elrond.

“From what I know of this Ring,” Faramir said, “it is actively malicious, and contains much of the Enemy’s power. It must be destroyed, for as powerful as it is, none can use it other than its maker.”

There were nods around the circle.

“But how are we to do so?” asked Gimli, son of Glóin. “If that destruction were as easy as merely breaking the accursed thing, I am sure it would already have been done.”

“It is powerful, but still metal. It must melt if it grows hot enough,” said Prince Legolas.

Faramir shrugged. “The only way to be entirely rid of a magical object, especially one that could potentially melt, is to cast it into a volcano.” The Jailbird had said so more than once, and Faramir would defer to his expertise on the matter.

The dwarves, the Men, and a number of elves nodded again, or gave quiet words of approval. It seemed a reasonable strategy to them.

Aragorn, Master Elrond, and a great number of other elves were, for some reason, silent and staring, as if in shock.

Eventually, Master Elrond coughed. "That has indeed worked in the past. But the One Ring must be destroyed in the fires where it was created: Mount Doom."

"It seems to me that this is the only choice, then," said Master Baggins. "And as it's I who started it, I ought to finish it, too."

Murmurs of discontent swarmed around the room; no one was pleased with the idea of an elderly little hobbit going on such a quest, or feeling responsible for it.

But it was Frodo Baggins who got up and said something, to everyone's surprise. "No, uncle. For better or for worse, you gave the Ring to me. I shall take it to Mordor and cast it into the fire."

And destiny locked into place.

* * *

In Minas Tirith, the elf once known as Makalaurë Kanafinwë shuddered, as if someone had walked over his grave.

(Only an expression, of course. Maglor, if he were to die, would have no grave; he would fade completely out of all record except the memory of the people he had hurt. Would that they could erase him too.)

The real reason was that he felt the threads of fate tightening, that a heavy doom had been laid upon someone, and the world would shake. Change was coming, and there was only one path open to those bound up in it.

There would be battle in Osgiliath again tonight. No matter how heavy destiny hung over the world, he would lament the Fortress-of-Stars as he always did. The song he sang for these nights was of his own composition, though admittedly not intended for this scenario.

_ The night is passing, and the sky, _

_ Where Varda’s jewels sit on high, _

_ Cries tears of mourning just like ours _

_ As we sing sorrow for the stars. _

_ The vault of heaven, all aglow, _

_ Smiles on the seafoam shine below, _

_ And they, too, weep, adorned with scars, _

_ As we sing sorrow for the stars. _

_ When Gil-Estel gleams in the night, _

_ Our hearts find comfort in the sight, _

_ And he looks down to where we are _

_ As we sing sorrow for the stars. _

_ Their light was dimmed and locked away _

_ When freed at last, they would not stay. _

_ The tragedy of Arda Marred: _

_ We must sing sorrow for the stars. _

So, no, the song was not about Osgiliath exactly, but it fit well enough. It was originally a section of the Noldolantë, but he had taken it out. The epic he had written was meant to be about the fall of his people, not his own personal crimes.

(He had to sing songs such as this one often, for fear of losing the truth of the past and forgetting what he had done. Maglor knew that, given time, he might manage to convince himself that he had in fact been a good parent and could one day be forgiven. He could not be allowed to think like that, and so reminded himself periodically.)

In any case, the song was not even entirely accurate. The children were never set free entirely; the adoption had seen to that.

Maglor remembered the adoption ceremony, the day that Elros and Elrond had become his and Maedhros's sons officially:

It had been after the Evening Star had first risen, after they had proof that Elwing and Eärendil were not coming back for their children. They had given the heirlooms and the gifts made by the giver's own hands (or hand, as the case might be), and the boys had accepted. They had promised love, care, and protection to the children, in the only vow they ever made that could even dream of superseding the Oath.

And last, with Elrond and Elros now proudly wearing the eight-pointed star on their newly-given circlets, they bound the children's fëar to their own and their House.

Worst of all, Maglor remembered how  _ happy _ he had been to commit such a vile act. He had been  _ glad _ that the children had accepted him as their father despite everything he had done, he had experienced  _ joy _ at making them part of his thrice-damned family.

Maglor felt sick when he remembered it. He wanted to scream at his past self,  _ how dare you! How dare you do this to them! _

It was cruel of him to have bound them so, crueler still in its effect: upon Maedhros's death, Elrond and Elros became the Heads of the House of Fëanor.

If Maglor had  _ actually _ been a parent to the boys, he would have stayed around and taught them to lead. Since he was instead a murderer, kidnapper, and thief, he had fled. It turned out that Elros and Elrond had felt as if they had some responsibility towards what was left of the House they had been forced to join, and (rightly enough, but surprisingly) bore no grudge against Celebrimbor, who had ended up helping them adjust to being in charge.

Maglor could still sense Elrond, hidden as he was, to an extent. The bond of adoption had never actually been broken, though Maglor absolutely should have broken it, and his failure to do so was just another entry on his list of selfish and morally reprehensible acts.

But he could know that Elrond was alive and safe through it, and that was very nearly worth the guilt.

Elrond was clearly in possession of one of Celebrimbor's rings (as Maglor could tell), and using it to protect and hide his valley, so Maglor could not easily sense Faramir at present, though he had for all intents and purposes been made a ward of the House of Fëanor.

And that was another worry: Elrond was Head of House, what if he noticed? Faramir -- and Boromir, for that matter -- had been placed under Maglor's protection, and therefore Elrond's. And Faramir was  _ in Imladris, _ he could tell that much.

It might have been a bad idea, but Maglor could not let himself regret it, not even if Elrond or someone else found out. It was the only way for him to protect Boromir and Faramir from up in his tower.

Boromir, unlike his brother, was strangely easy to protect. Privately, Maglor wondered why (there certainly could not be a preponderance of eight-pointed stars, rayed or not, in Osgiliath, which would make keeping Boromir safe much easier), but refused to question it lest his good fortune change. It was hardly any effort to make him lucky, to soften blows and redirect arrows that could hit him. Even loosening the grip of the magic that Sauron’s servants used was hardly any trouble at all.

This was good. He was imprisoned, unable to hurt anyone, and he could still protect people he cared about. That was enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please leave comments and kudos, and check out Jailbird Songs for a more detailed explanation of the piece! :)


	10. New Questline

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Fellowship is formed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello! you may have noticed that updates are coming every 4 days instead of every 3, and that's gonna continue for the forseeable future. i'm having trouble writing the bit i'm on, and i'm working on several other fics besides, including one for TRSB. i don't want to run through my chapter buffer too quickly. thank you for being patient!
> 
> silm notes:  
> -"cruel ice and being too late": a reference to the crossing of the helcaraxë, a region of ice, that killed a bunch of elves, and when they arrived in middle earth everything was bad  
> -NO OATHS!

Faramir carefully braided his hair, placing his hair clasp at a point deep within the complex coils so he could wear it without notice. He felt better for having it there, a reminder of home and the people who loved him.

He’d had another dream a few nights before, one of cruel ice and being too late, with a song of the biting wind and snow.

It was a dream of the future, that had been obvious, but as with most of his dreams, it echoed the past. He had read, once, that history repeating itself was a powerful magic all on its own, and seers in particular were attuned to it.

He had brought up this dream to Master Elrond, who hurried along preparations to choose and outfit a group of people to accompany Frodo on his quest, because any attempt to cross the mountains in winter would be harrowing.

Today, Faramir received a summons to return to the courtyard where the Council had been held. When he arrived, Gimli son of Glóin was already there, along with Frodo Baggins and Samwise Gamgee.

Within a few minutes, Prince Legolas and Aragorn (King Aragorn? He was not yet king, but Faramir had been raised with manners. Well, he had introduced himself to Faramir as just “Aragorn,” so that would be how Faramir addressed him) came into the courtyard, along with Mithrandir, Meriadoc Brandybuck, and Peregrin Took (the hobbits had given Faramir permission to call them by nicknames, but he didn’t feel as if he knew them well enough to do so yet).

Master Elrond entered after them and said, “Thank you all for coming. Some of you,” and here he directed a glance at Merry and Pippin, “already know why I called you, but here is the reason: I believe you would be helpful assets on Frodo’s quest to destroy the Ring, at least to travel with him part of the way.”

Mithrandir, Aragorn, and the hobbits hardly seemed surprised; they must have been involved in this decision.

“You do not have to go, of course,” said Master Elrond. “But do think it over, and give me your answer as soon as you may, for I do not wish for you to set out in the deep winter, not while the Misty Mountains stand between you and your destination.”

Faramir went off to think about it in the library.

* * *

He had already pulled a detailed atlas from the shelf and started looking at routes before he realized what he was doing. He had not yet decided to join the quest, and here he was planning a path!

Faramir sighed. It seemed he had already made his choice.

But what would his father say? This whole journey had been described as "shirking his duties," and even if the quest saved all of Middle-Earth, he would still disapprove.

Well, he was not going on this mission to win his father's love and approval, which was a futile endeavor; he was going in order to give Frodo Baggins a slightly better chance of destroying the Ring. That was all.

So now all Faramir had to do was write a letter to his father, and another to Boromir and the Jailbird, that would explain his quest without actually describing it in any detail. And find an appropriate course for the journey.

Just as he reached for a piece of paper to start drafting his letter home, Mithrandir entered the library.

“How are you doing, Faramir?” asked the wizard. “Do you think you will accompany this quest?”

“I will, yes. But I must find an appropriate way to inform my father,” said Faramir.

“Goodness me! And here I thought you would be difficult to convince. I suppose I had better go and badger Legolas or Gimli, then."

"You will not need to, I don't think," said Faramir. "They each will go, if only to show up the other. I predict conflict between them, but one that shall be resolved."

Mithrandir narrowed his eyes. "Do you predict or do you  _ predict _ ? If you have foreknowledge, it would be quite unfair to join the hobbits' betting pool."

"I think I shall leave you to wonder. Could you tell me what route you plan to take to Mordor? Here, I have an atlas," Faramir said, pushing the book towards Mithrandir.

He took it and traced the path. "South, over the pass of Caradhras, then south again along the River Anduin."

"Not the High Pass? It's closer, and Caradhras has a reputation for unkind weather, no matter the season."

"The High Pass is snowed over already," said Mithrandir.

"And Caradhras is not?" said Faramir incredulously. "It is already November. Crossing the mountains will not be safe until spring, and we have not the time to wait."

"Are there other options?"

"We could chance the Gap, if we feel lucky enough. Or do something about Isengard while the Ringbearer sneaks on ahead." He pointed to a place on the map and added, "But there is another option. Gimli was telling me of Khazad-Dûm, which is not so far from Caradhras, and if there is a way through we need not brave the cold."

Mithrandir nodded. "I will think on it," he said, and took his leave.

* * *

> _ "My dear brother Boromir, _
> 
> _ I am safely in Imladris, though I shall be leaving shortly. It is beautiful here, though I confess I have spent more time in the library than out among the trees. The place is covered in stars like those of the Jailbird, and Master Elrond who rules here is as kind and wise as we were told. _
> 
> _ The sword from the dream we had is, it turns out, the broken sword of Elendil from the folktales, called Narsil. Its owner, Aragorn, is apparently the Heir of Isildur, and thus the rightful king of Gondor and Arnor. _
> 
> _ I have been asked to go with him and several companions, including Mithrandir, on a mission against the Enemy. I regret that I cannot tell you more, but secrecy is of the utmost importance. _
> 
> _ And the "halfling" from the dream means a hobbit, a Mannish type of person even smaller than dwarves. I have enclosed a sketch. Four of them are also going on this quest, and I think you would like them. _
> 
> _ Bring the attached letter to the Jailbird, if you would. I miss you both terribly. _
> 
> _ But in a way I am glad you are not here, for I have Seen that were you to take on this mission, you would surely die, but for me such a fate is not ordained. This must have been what you became aware of just before we parted. _
> 
> _ I found a statue here that appears to depict the Tower-Singer, with something etched in the base. Most of it was unreadable, but I believe I have read a part of his name: Makalaurë. Do not use the name, for I may be wrong, but destroy this part of the letter in case I am right. It would not do to have his name spread about. _
> 
> _ I shall visit if I can. Give my love to the Jailbird. _
> 
> _ Your brother, _
> 
> _ Faramir" _

* * *

Only a few days later, after Faramir, Gimli, and Legolas had agreed to join the quest, Master Elrond gathered the participants from the Council to see off the quest-goers.

"I name you the Fellowship of the Ring, the hope of all Free Folk who oppose the Shadow," said Master Elrond. "You have spoken no vow to see this mission through to the end, but let your hearts guide you."

Gimli opened his mouth to say something, but Faramir nudged him and hissed, "No oaths!" as Aragorn did the same.

Master Elrond hid a smile. "May all blessings and good fortune go with you, and the stars watch over your path. Fare ye well!"

And so the Fellowship left Imladris and began their journey together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> how are these letters gonna get delivered before faramir himself gets to minas tirith? uhhh idk, let's do some suspension of disbelief here, it was the eagles or something
> 
> hope you liked it :)
> 
> please leave comments and kudos, they really motivate me to write more chapters!
> 
> (unless you're here to insult or nitpick my writing, in which case, get a life, no one's making you read this)


	11. To Misinterpret

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a great number of things are misunderstood, Denethor makes a supremely bad decision, and Maglor has Guilt Crisis #3.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello everyone! chapters are gonna be every 4-5 days for a bit, as i said on the previous chapter, because i'm having a lot of trouble writing it (what can i say, ch25 doesn't want to exist i guess)
> 
> in between updates, i'll be posting short kidnap dads fics from my tumblr in The Cilantro Incident and Other Vignettes. if you want to prompt me go ahead! im over at @jaz-the-bard
> 
> silm notes:  
> -yes the sea thing is about maglor, elwing yeeted herself into the ocean and then he helped steal her kids and eventually wandered the shores for ~2500 years  
> -i honestly live for messy elf politics, and there's no way people just immediately trusted two kids who grew up w murderers

Maglor dreamed. It was not a true-dream, as real as it felt; he had them rarely, and they did not feel like this. But it could so  _ easily _ be a true vision. He was not a player in the dream, instead he observed, bodiless and in more than one place, as the scene unfolded before him.

Faramir had just entered Imladris, openly wearing Maglor's gifts. At his desk, Elrond's head snapped up in fear.

Maglor could read the thoughts on dream-Elrond's face as he sensed the entry:  _ No, how has he come here? I thought I was safe, I thought he was dead-- _ as he stood up and frantically ran out the door.  _ If he has come for me, I cannot allow him to hurt any of my people. _

Elrond crashed outside into a courtyard bearing his father Eärendil's six-pointed star device and saw Faramir on the other side, and his fear turned to confusion. And then he saw the clasp in Faramir's hair and the pattern on the cloak he wore, and the color drained from his face.

"Greetings, traveler," he said, fighting to keep his voice level. "What brings you here?"

"I am Faramir of Gondor, and I received a prophetic dream that led me here."

"And where did you obtain that hair clasp and cloak with such a symbol on them?"

Faramir looked surprised. "From a strange singing elf with bright eyes. He made the cloak for me. Why?"

"Oh, by the Valar, I am so sorry," said Elrond.  _ He was taken away, just as I was, and by the same kidnapper. _ "How did he -- no, that is the wrong question. Do you know who he is?" Yet again were his thoughts visible:  _ This is my fault, it must be! He has stolen this child because I escaped him. Would it not have been better for me to have remained captive, and so have spared this one? _

"I know not his name, but I know he raised and taught me when my father decided he had no time to," said Faramir, defensive.

Elrond smiled bitterly. "He did the same for me, in a way. But you are safe now, he cannot enter here, and I shall not let him hurt anyone else."

"What did he do to you, that you say such things?" asked Faramir.

"He has likely told you stories of himself, vain as he is. Did he ever speak of Fëanor and his seven sons? He is the second of them, he who killed my family and took me prisoner along with my brother, and decided to pretend he was our father," Elrond said. "I had thought him dead, until you came here with his house's symbol."  _ And I thought it him come once more to drag me back, and this time he would not ever let me go. _

"He--" Faramir broke off, shaken, tears welling up. "But I believed he cared for us."

Elrond froze. "'Us?'"

"My brother." Faramir paused. His eyes widened. "Valar, my brother! He remains in Gondor, he is not safe!"

"He is safe enough for now,” Elrond said. “Maglor does care for you, I am sure, though less than he cares for himself and his own delusions of family. He has adopted you, as he once did to me, linking you to his curse."  _ He is so much like Elros. Is that why Maglor took him, as a replacement? _

Faramir made the connection. "You are the son he speaks of. He says he misses you," he said, making Elrond flinch. "Ai, my father always worried when I spent time with him; I should have listened! People thought I had been enchanted by his music, but he was so kind to me." He began to cry in earnest.

"Oh, I am sorry," said Elrond, trying to comfort him. "I fell to his magicks, too, though my obedience was in part motivated by fear. But he freed me once, even if he did not intend to, and I shall free you and your brother. All shall be well soon."

Maglor wanted to speak out in his own defense. He had not bespelled Faramir, or kidnapped him or Boromir, or ever intended to hurt them. But Elrond had said he had harmed them in the very act of adopting them, and he would know, would he not?

And he  _ had _ kidnapped Elrond and Elros, and probably enchanted them or otherwise won their affection through threat, so he had no right to defend himself now.

Maglor woke with guilt ringing through his mind.

* * *

Denethor read Faramir's letter, unease growing with every word.

Everyone knew, of course, that elves could not be trusted. 

Those of Mirkwood were the hunters, wild and fey, while those of Lothlórien, ruled by a witch, were cruel and jovial and ruled an eternal revel where mortals could not help but join in and dance to their deaths. They who lived in Imladris were said to be wise and welcoming, so much that you could never leave, and the elven singers by the sea used their music to cause people to throw themselves into the ocean.

(It was only one elf that did that, really, and those deeds of his had been conflated, but he wandered the coast for a time singing and the other thing did happen  _ near _ the sea, so it ended up attributed to Círdan's people.)

And every tale, every account, agreed that elves stole children away from their homes.

(This was actually fairly true. If an elf saw a child mistreated, they would often take the child to a place where they would be better looked after, and leave something in the child's bed or crib to hide the absence, which was where the changeling myth came from. Only two elves had ever really  _ kidnapped _ children.)

But what had befallen Faramir, in the land that few came back from?

> _ "Dear Father, _
> 
> _ I have arrived safely in Imladris and found the answer to my and Boromir's dream. I regret I cannot tell you where exactly the valley lies, for it is hidden and protected by powerful enchantment, but it is wondrous and fair, and the very air sings with welcome." _

Just as Denethor had thought. Faramir was somewhere unfindable and enthralling, and would not return. Such was the risk in dealing with elves. Denethor found himself glad that Boromir had not gone.

> _ "The 'Sword that was Broken' is the sword of King Elendil, which King Isildur once used to injure the Enemy. Its current wielder is the Heir of Isildur, rightful king of Gondor and Arnor. He has lived here for most of his life, it appears, though he is busy as Chieftain of the Dúnedain, and travels often." _

An heir to kingship? False, to be sure, some sort of elven illusion. But if he were real -- stolen as a child, maybe replaced by a changeling, and raised to be as elven as his guardians -- it did not bode well for Gondor, to have such a man as rightful king.

(Denethor did not know this, but his rhetoric closely mirrored that of some courtiers in the late First Age and early Second, expressing their distrust of the peredhil raised by kinslayers.)

> _ "'Isildur's Bane' is some power of the Enemy, most knowledge of which has been lost, but the 'halfling' means one of the race of hobbits, who are small folk somewhat like dwarves. _
> 
> _ I apologize for not sending you a letter earlier; I meant to do so as soon as I discovered the dream's meaning, but in truth time seems to slip away from me in such an ageless place, even as I see autumn turn to winter." _

It was said that time passed differently when one was a guest of the elves. Even if Faramir were to be released, it would be centuries from now, though he would feel it as barely a year.

> _ "I write now to tell you that I shall be accompanying several of my new acquaintances on a journey, an attempt to fight the Shadow, and so I shall not be in Imladris if you need me. Our road may take us near Gondor, and if so I shall be sure to report to you in person. With me on this journey are Isildur's Heir, several hobbits, a dwarf, and the Prince of Mirkwood." _

The Wild Hunt.

Faramir was to be killed in the Wild Hunt.

Oh, he might survive, thanks to having led the Rangers for a time, but only to become the bespelled servant of this so-called Heir of Isildur. And from what Denethor had heard, the Prince of Mirkwood was a monster rivaled only by his father, and a bitter enemy to dwarves. The dwarf accompanying Faramir was probably meant to be the prince's newest plaything, proof that even dwarves could be enchanted despite their natural resistance to such magic.

> _ "Give Boromir my love. _
> 
> _ Yours, _
> 
> _ Faramir" _

This was ill news. If they arrived in Minas Tirith, with or without an ensorcelled Faramir, there was little hope for Gondor. Denethor knew that his own mind was strong; it had to be, to use the palantír. But strong enough to hold off both elves and the Shadow? He found it hard to hold onto hope.

But then an idea struck him.

Not all elves had the same interests. And there was an elf here in the citadel, an old and presumably strong one. Denethor knew the perils of making a deal, yes, but he had a duty to Gondor.

Setting the Jailbird entirely free was out of the question, and he would not give his firstborn child, but he could spare Faramir. The elf had shown an interest in teaching Faramir when he was young, and he was a singer, like those sea-elves who were especially known to steal children.

Denethor would speak to his closest advisors to see what they could use to bargain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you enjoyed the angst! if you liked denethor's section, go read Hungry Eye, Ancient Soul by secretlythranduil and me, it's building off that idea :)
> 
> please leave comments and kudos!!!


	12. Westgate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Fellowship travels to Khazad-Dûm and Maglor has a brief coda to his guilt crisis.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello everyone!!! i'm back w a new chapter
> 
> flower symbolism:  
> -clematis means ingenuity and has 8 petals, it's the feanor flower lol  
> -wisteria means welcome
> 
> silm notes:  
> -celebrimbor renounced his family at one point but he put their sigil on the doors so i guess he decided the new leadership (e&e) wasn't so bad  
> -elves absolutely have first age trauma responses  
> -i think the implications of the hobbit movies (ie "there are redheaded elves just chillin in the forests") is great so i kept it  
> -elves are very scared of redheads bc maedhros had red hair and gave people nightmares

> _ "Dear Tower-Singer, _
> 
> _ Hopefully Boromir is giving you this himself, and therefore able to deliver a warm embrace from me. _
> 
> _ I know you appreciate news of elven realms, so here is my report: the valley is in an uproar; more and more of the Enemy's minions have been sighted abroad. The Rider we saw was one of his Ringwraiths, and a group of them chased some people into the valley before they were expelled. No residents of Imladris were harmed. _
> 
> _ Master Elrond is a gracious host and helped to explain my dream. Ask Boromir about it, I have already committed its meaning to paper twice. He appears exasperated by the sheer number of guests he must manage at present, but otherwise well. _
> 
> _ He asked me to go on a quest, one which I cannot divulge much about, but it is intended to do harm to the Enemy, so I accepted. I will visit if I can. _
> 
> _ Imladris is a beautiful place, and I would that you could see it. It feels safe down to its roots, protected from all evil. Clematis flowers bloom in the gardens, and the arbors are awash with wisteria. It is a hidden place, at least in theory, but somehow I managed to walk in without directions, and no one has yet figured out how. _
> 
> _ But I have one more piece of news: there is living in the valley a Man named Aragorn, who is Isildur's Heir and rightful King of Gondor. He may take up the kingship, in which case he must be made aware of you. Him knowing Master Elrond, I think it safe to conclude that elves would hear of your presence. _
> 
> _ Please stay safe. _
> 
> _ Love, _
> 
> _ Faramir" _

Maglor breathed a sigh of relief. Faramir was protected under Elrond’s enchantments, and his nightmare had been false. It was comforting, too, to know that even if someday he left this tower, for any reason, he would be barred from Imladris like all other evils, and thus kept incapable of hurting Elrond again.

The dream had been right about a few things, though, and the most important was this: Elrond lived in fear of Maglor returning to drag him back into captivity. Maglor did not intend to do so (he did not  _ want _ to hurt Elrond), but he had done so in the past and could not be sure that he would not again if given the opportunity. How fortunate, then, that Maglor was high in a tower and Elrond safe in a place he could never enter.

Elrond did not have to be afraid. Perhaps he would think Maglor safely dead and be able to move on from his vigilance and fear.

Isildur’s Heir, though... that did not bode well. It might do Gondor good to have a king again, or perhaps simply any ruler that was not Denethor (Maglor knew he was biased, but look at how the man treated his children!), but it spelled massive political and social upheaval at best. And this “Aragorn" knew Elrond.

Maglor reread the letter and shuddered slightly as he read Faramir's description of Imladris. Once, long ago and on another shore, clematis flowers had been colloquially known as "Fëanor flowers," both for their eight petals and their association with ingenuity.

Hopefully the curse on everything to do with his House did not extend to its official flower, or Elrond could be in danger from it. Maglor did not remember telling him about it; if he had, Elrond would have picked something safer, both politically and practically.

* * *

The Fellowship had been journeying for a handful of weeks and Faramir already wearied of it.

He found himself getting along with his companions well enough. All of them had agreed to use each other's given names (with the addition of "Mister" in some cases); there was little room for formality on such a quest.

But the same could not be said for Legolas and Gimli. The elf and dwarf were constantly at each other's throats over some small thing or other, and if not, they pointedly ignored each other. At times they bantered in an almost friendly manner, and at others they seemed moments from drawing blades.

The Fellowship had thought to go over the pass of Caradhras, but the way was already deep in snow, and the mountain, according to Mithrandir, was disinclined to let them cross.

So instead, they planned to go under the mountains, through Khazad-Dûm.

As they followed the track of the Sirannon eastwards towards the mountains, they had to fight off a pack of orcs. The four hobbits, who had been receiving basic sword training, protected themselves well, while those who were warriors got rid of their assailants.

(Faramir was ashamed to admit that he could not differentiate between Meriadoc and Peregrin. It was not for lack of trying, and the hobbits were far from identical, but he could not tell them apart. Instead, he guessed at random, and by some strange twist of fate, was always correct. Faramir wanted to tear his hair out.)

Gimli and Legolas were rather upset to notice how well they had fought together.

But soon they were under the stone of the Misty Mountains, making their way to the Dwarrowdelf.

* * *

Aragorn was finding Faramir to be quite the enigma.

He was a good in a fight, amiable outside of one, and suspiciously knowledgeable about elves for the son of Denethor, who knew little of the Eldar and trusted them even less. He hummed and sang constantly, like Legolas did, though they had very few songs in common.

But the strangest thing about him yet was revealed at the West Gate of Khazad-Dûm.

The Doors of Durin were beautiful in the moonlight, engraved with elegant tengwar in an ancient mode, a Fëanorian Star blazing bright in ithildin at their center.

(Legolas looked slightly queasy, as he had in Rivendell when exposed to the eight-pointed stars with rays. He himself did not know why they affected him so, but here is the truth: a great many elves retained instincts that helped them survive in the First Age, one of them being an aversion to eight-pointed stars, and passed them down to their children.

Legolas, unlike most Sindarin elves, held no residual fear of red-haired folk, as the color was not particularly rare among the Silvan elves he grew up with, but the people of Mirkwood always did have a habit of being exceptions.)

Faramir, by contrast, saw the star and visibly  _ relaxed. _ Aragorn saw him read the old tengwar and could hardly even be surprised.

"You seem familiar with that symbol," said Aragorn, unable to suppress his curiosity.

Faramir startled. "I have seen sigils like it in the past, and they marked safe places. This is clearly older than those I have seen, yet all the same it fills me with security." He gave a small, embarrassed laugh. "Illogical, I know, but it brings me comfort even here."

That explained why he had been so comfortable in Imladris, though he had never been there before.

"There's writing on the doors there," said Samwise. "What does it mean?"

Mithrandir read it out, first in Sindarin and then Westron. "I believe there is a password to speak before the doors will admit us."

The Fellowship started throwing out guesses, but that did not get them anywhere, so Peregrin started throwing rocks into the water that had gathered behind the Sirannon's dam.

"I have an idea," said Frodo. "Perhaps the password is written somewhere secret in case a person forgets it, or otherwise there is an opening mechanism."

Gimli and Aragorn searched the door, but found nothing.

"Legolas, lift me up so I can search the arch," said Faramir. "Perhaps it is high up. It seems a very tall doorway for dwarves, and most elves too."

Legolas sighed, put-upon, and allowed Faramir to sit upon his shoulders. The door did not reveal its secrets.

On the way down, Faramir's hand brushed the star, and it lit up at his touch. Legolas stumbled back in surprise, almost dropping him.

Mithrandir looked over to see what the commotion was and his eyes widened.

Aragorn, too, was shocked. The doors still failed to open, but something had changed (Had not Gimli touched the star in his investigation? He must not have, if this did not happen then).

He made to reexamine the door, but stopped when the words of the inscription flashed light and then went dark again.

As the Fellowship stared in amazement, individual letters began to flash, spelling out a message:  _ "monster in the water." _

And indeed, just as the message ended, the water of the pond began to seethe, and tentacles reached out towards Peregrin.

He ran from the pond as Mithrandir berated him, and the fighters sheltered the hobbits behind them. The writing started to flash again, but this time just a single word already written, over and over:  _ "friend." _

Mithrandir saw it and laughed. "It is a pun! You merely have to say the word 'friend' in Elvish! Mellon!" he cried, and the doors opened.

The Fellowship ran inside, and the doors slammed behind them of their own accord, and sealed themselves by magic as the tentacles hit them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you liked it :) next up we get maglor's view on all this
> 
> please leave comments and kudos if you liked it!!


	13. Maglor vs Moria

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Maglor is a helicopter parent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok the actual title of this chapter is "maglor hacks moria" but they haven't invented hacking in middle earth yet
> 
> school is starting up for me, exciting, but i should still have time to write and update :)
> 
> notes:  
> -maglor knows the one ring exists but not that it was found  
> -legolas's father and grandfather were from doriath, which maglor and his family attacked one time  
> -maiar are kinda the equivalent of angels or spirits, gandalf is one and his name is olórin, all the wizards are maiar  
> -there was a maia named melian who married an elf and she's elrond's great great grandma  
> -balrogs are also maiar and sauron is a maia as well

When Maglor first sensed something from a far-away Fëanorian star, he ignored it. But when it came into contact with a related magic -- Faramir, he could tell -- he paid attention.

Maglor let his awareness sink into that star.

The first thing he noticed was the door. Celebrimbor had clearly made it, and put the sigil there (which was strange), but meant he could manipulate the stone to an extent.

The second was that, since it was on a door, it declared the entire realm of that door as under the protection of the House of Fëanor, and that meant Maglor could perceive all of it.

And the third was that some foul creature lurked in the water near Faramir and his companions.

(Seeing through the sigil was not exactly seeing. He could tell that there were people, and the vague shape of their presence, but in a sense he  _ was _ the door and the Dwarrowdelf beyond, and these could feel but not see. Had there been eyes drawn upon the doors, though, he could have.)

There was a message inscribed in ithildin, which he could use to reach them. The tengwar were not the modern mode, but he had taught these to Faramir.

He caused each letter of his message to light up.

_ Please notice, _ he thought.  _ Please get out! _

There was movement away from the waters as the beast awoke, but no one opened the doors.

Oh, there was a password! Clever of Celebrimbor to place it, though the choice of key left something to be desired. But the pun was characteristic of him, and even controlling the doors as Maglor was, he could not open them without the passphrase. He made the word "mellon" light up in the hopes that someone would say it.

Olórin figured it out and spoke the word, and all nine of the party rushed through the doors. Maglor shut and sealed them to keep the monster out.

He took a deep breath and steeled himself. There were many dangers in Khazad-Dûm, but he might have the power to keep these people safe.

* * *

Aragorn leaned against the wall to catch his breath while counting up the Fellowship to ensure that they were all safe. They were.

How had the doors warned them of the creature in the pond, and why had they been told the password?

He looked out into the Dwarrowdelf and tried to remember how he had come through in the opposite direction. To his surprise, a few of the less broken stone lamps lit, but only those leading directly to the door he remembered as the one he had used on the way westward.

"Some force is guiding us," he said aloud. "It told us of the water beast and the word that would open the doors, and now shows us what path to take."

"Can we trust it?" asked Frodo. "Thus far it has been kind, but it may be a trick."

Mithrandir said, "This power feels born of a desire to protect, not ill will. But perhaps it is not  _ us _ it wishes to keep safe, so we must be wary still."

"Might we rest for a bit?" said Samwise. "We don't seem to be in any danger here, to my mind anyway, and you can think about it. That monster was frightening, and I for one would like a moment to breathe."

Mithrandir nodded and they all settled in.

* * *

If Maglor focused, he could make out Faramir and his companions. There were four small creatures that felt like Men, which were probably the hobbits that Faramir had mentioned, one dwarf, one elf, Olórin, an unfamiliar Man, and Faramir himself.

And just there, something else -- it felt like --

_ Þauron. _

The Enemy must truly be worried about their quest, to place such a heavy curse of temptation and disharmony upon them.

He could light the way for them well enough, as long as there were working stone lamps, but many orcs and other evil creatures lurked in the depths. He closed and locked as many doors as he could to keep them away from the party's route.

But deep below the great bridge, which they would need to cross (there was no other way), there slumbered a Balrog.  _ Iron Hells! _ What could he do against that, if it awoke?

...There was something small that Maglor could do. It might not protect them from the Balrog, but perhaps it could shield them from Þauron's discord-causing magic. It was something.

He had to do it now, while they were in a place already touched by his family's power.

Maglor called to mind the words and began to murmur the song, and declared every member of the group to be under the protection of his House, placing each of them under the shield he wove with his music.

The elf fought it -- he was covered in very Doriathrin enchantments for his safety, so this magic had to lie over them lightly, as the spells held a grudge against Maglor.

The Man was another story. The magic slid over him easily and settled like a second skin, as if he had already been claimed by another member of the House. That was absurd, of course; Maglor was the only one left.

The rest of the enchantments he laid were unremarkable, save for the one on Olórin, which refused to stick. Apparently they were not meant for Maiar, though Maglor knew from experience that it worked perfectly well on part-Maia children.

He made sure to redouble the protections on Faramir.

* * *

Faramir felt as if he had been wrapped in a warm blanket, safe and held.

Legolas felt as if he were about to break out in hives.

Aragorn felt something not unlike the sensation of crossing the borders of Imladris. The magic was even reminiscent of Elrond's.

Gimli and the hobbits felt comforted, like a protective hand had been laid on their shoulders.

Gandalf felt a frustrated Maglor, annoyed at not being able to protect the whole Fellowship, decide that the wizard would be on his own.

(The Ring felt another piece of its doom click into place.)

* * *

Maglor kept lighting the way for the Fellowship over three next few days, and apparently they had decided to trust him, for they followed.

He managed to keep most of the orcs out, but a small group of them got through near the bridge, and they raised the alarm.

Maglor cursed. He could already feel the Balrog awakening. Distantly, he noticed his physical body's thirst, as he had been singing with little pause, but this was no time to stop.

He steadied the bridge and sped his charges' feet over it, and behind them let it crumble, leaving the orcs trapped on the other side and the party safe.

But then up rose the Balrog, all afire, and Olórin chose to confront it instead of running like a sensible person.

Maglor left him to it. That was Olórin's business.

An orcish arrow struck one of the hobbits, but he seemed surprisingly uninjured. A moment later, Maglor could tell why: the other mithril shirt, the match to that which Boromir and Faramir had both once worn, had somehow found its way to him. Perhaps it had been given to him by Elrond, as Þauron's power surrounded this particular hobbit the most.

Olórin managed to push the Balrog off the falling bridge, but it dragged him down with it.

Privately, Maglor thought that he could have prevented it from getting a grip on Olórin if he had been able to use his magic on him. It did not matter; the Maia would be well enough eventually, and Maglor still had eight people to protect..

After Olórin's fall, they hurried out of Khazad-Dûm and into the fresh air, exhausted but mostly unharmed.

Maglor could no longer manipulate their surroundings directly, and they were in no obvious danger, so he took the opportunity to collapse on the floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please leave comments and kudos if you liked it!!! <3
> 
> also check out the latest chapter of Hungry Eye, Ancient Soul because i am REALLY pleased w how it turned out


	14. A Brief Rest in Lothlórien

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Artanis "Galadriel" Nerwen has to put up with the Fellowship, and Maglor has a short reprise of guilt crisis #3.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ughhhh school is. happening. unfortunately.
> 
> good news, i'm currently writing ch27 of this fic so there WILL be regular updates for a while
> 
> silm notes:  
> -'galadriel' is actually a name given to her by her husband when they first met, her parents named her artanis and nerwen  
> -galadriel hates feanor so much  
> -valarauka is i think the quenya word for balrog, quenya is galadriel's native language  
> -feanor asked galadriel for a strand of her hair and she said no  
> -vilya is the Ring of Air, elrond's ring of power
> 
> flower symbolism (yes there's more):  
> -laurel: victory  
> -sword lily/gladiolus: honor, integrity, strength, also it has sword in the name

Galadriel sighed. These visitors of hers, the "Fellowship" they called themselves, were exhausting, and she had only just been introduced to them.

Oh, Aragorn was well enough; he was polite and knew how to behave. He pined over Arwen far too often, but that was bearable.

It was Legolas and Gimli that were the greatest headache. They had started a fight over something to do with blindfolds, and Aragorn had needed to pull them apart with the help of his new friend Faramir. To make it worse, the elf and dwarf were clearly developing an infatuation with one another, and sought to deny it through rivalry and insult, ruining the peaceful atmosphere.

Legolas's mind, when she looked into it, was entwined deeply with his home forest. Doubt and fear crept in, but so too did love.

Gimli, like most dwarves, was of stone unyielding, but she could see where he softened to allow the creation of new and greater things.

Faramir, unlike that pair, was a delight. Galadriel had not met anyone from Gondor in many years, but if they were all so pleasant, well-mannered, and fond of learning as this one, she might have to pay the place a visit.

(She retracted that idea when she saw his cloak and remembered that Gondorians liked to decorate with the Númenórean star. She dealt with quite enough of such nonsense when she visited Elrond.)

She looked into Faramir's mind, where he greeted her politely in ósanwe. Trained, then. She saw his past, his brother, his desire to protect Gondor, and his relationship with his father. There was something else there, too, that she could not see, and it seemed important. That was frustrating.

_ Faramir son of Denethor, _ she whispered,  _ would you not like to go home? Or somewhere else, someplace free of fear and struggle? It need not be you on this quest. _

_ There is no place free of struggle that I may go to, _ he replied.  _ The Enemy must be fought, and though it need not be me shouldering this errand, someone must, and I am willing. _

Galadriel smiled. He passed the test.

The hobbits were a breath of fresh air. Not carefree as they might have been before this quest upended their lives, but so very unelven.

There was shadow encroaching on their hearts, especially Frodo's, and he had been dealt a Morgul wound. She would strengthen them as best she could before they left.

Olórin was not with the Fellowship. When she asked, they replied that he had fallen in battle with a Valarauka in Khazad-Dûm. He ought to have told them that he was a Maia and likely to return, for she could see that they grieved in earnest.

"I welcome you to Lothlórien," she said. "Your errand is urgent, but I ask you to stay a short time, to heal your wounds and mourn."

* * *

Faramir hummed along to the elves' laments for Mithrandir as the sun sank below the horizon. He was something of an expert on laments and elegies, having been tutored by the Jailbird.

They had been in Lothlórien for five days. On the second day, Legolas and Gimli had gone on a long walk together, as they had done every day since. Today, they had returned holding hands.

Frodo and Sam had appeared distraught after some sort of conference with the Lady Galadriel, but seemed better now. Faramir privately disapproved of anything that put more weight on any of the hobbits' shoulders, especially those of the Ringbearer, on principle, but Lady Galadriel looked as if an old sorrow had been cleared from her heart.

Having healed their injuries and processed (for the most part) the death of Mithrandir, the Fellowship planned to leave in two days. Lady Galadriel had offered them boats to take down the Anduin, and Aragorn had accepted.

It was pleasant, being wrapped in the enchantment and song of this land, almost like the nights when he was young and the Jailbird's song had lulled him to sleep before he had even met the singer. Not so immediately welcoming as Imladris had been, perhaps, but peaceful, and a great comfort after the loss of Mithrandir.

He began to sing to himself, not loudly enough to be noticed, for that was not his intention, but only to add his voice to the others raised in song. "The night is passing, and the sky..."

* * *

It was time for the Fellowship to depart the forest and head south, so Galadriel had prepared a speech and some parting gifts.

All of them received cloaks woven with the power to hide their wearers (aside from Faramir, who already wore an enchanted cloak), some rope, matching cloak pins, and a supply of lembas.

She gave Aragorn a scabbard for his reforged sword, and a jewel that Arwen had wanted him to have. To Samwise she gave a box of soil that would make his garden flourish, and to Legolas a new bow and many arrows. Meriadoc and Peregrin each received an elegant belt, Faramir a long dagger decorated with a design of laurel leaves and sword lilies. She had captured a bit of Eärendil's light to give to Frodo, and for Gimli...

Gimli. She had no idea what to give him, so she would resort to asking.

"And what gift could I offer you, Gimli son of Glóin?"

His response was beautiful and eloquent, but the gist of it was that he desired a strand of her hair to set in a crystal and remember her beauty by.

It was a request strangely similar to one she had denied long ago, but she could see into Gimli's heart, and knew him to be honest and true. She smiled, and gave him three.

She pronounced her final blessing on Gimli and the Fellowship as she wove magical protection around them. There was already a spell on them, as it turned out, and a very Fëanorian one at that. Perhaps Elrond was trying something new and using Vilya for it? 

Galadriel layered hers atop it and bade them farewell.

  
  


Something probed the protections around Faramir and his companions.

Maglor had paid little attention to the party once they had crossed a border enchantment. They were probably in Galadriel's realm, and there were few places safer than Lothlórien. The same could not be said for Osgiliath, where Boromir was, so he had focused his efforts there.

But this touch to the shields put him on alert, and he reached out to where Faramir was.

He was right about Lothlórien, at least: it was Galadriel herself whose consciousness brushed over his protections as she laid her own. Maglor knew it would do nothing, but he held his breath all the same, hoping she would not look close enough to recognize or find him.

To his relief, she retreated without giving any indication of having noticed him.

Clearly Maglor had needed the reminder that any elf finding out about him was a danger. He had gotten far too proud of protecting Faramir and his friends, as if this one good deed meant anything after what he had done.

(This was also the closest he had been to any member of his family for millennia.)

It was a good time, then, to remind himself, to sing once more of his own deeds to ensure he never forgot them or began to romanticize the past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you liked it! please leave comments and kudos, and come check out my tumblr @jaz-the-bard
> 
> thanks for reading <3


	15. Perchance to Dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Maglor has a nightmare and Guilt Crisis #4, and Dream Elrond has a guilt crisis too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NEW SONG NEW SONG
> 
> the recording is of just one verse but it's v repetitive, you'll get it, listen [here](https://jaz-the-bard.tumblr.com/post/628252476372598784/jazthebard-snippet-of-the-song-in-chapter-15-of)
> 
> silm notes:  
> -i don't think there's anything that i haven't already mentioned before?  
> -for the record imladris does have 6 pointed stars also, elrond is cool and can absolutely love all his parents
> 
> my elfdoption lore refresher:  
> -parent has to give heirloom and handmade gift  
> -parent makes vow to love & protect the kid  
> -fea bond time  
> -m&m gave e&e a pair of circlets as the heirlooms, mags gave them quilts he made, mae gave them hand-drawn maps of beleriand and aman

Again Maglor dreamed.

It seemed to be a continuation of the previous nightmare, though he knew that dream had little basis in actual events. In this one, Faramir was absent, having renounced Maglor and gone to write a letter to Boromir in warning, and only Elrond and his thoughts could be perceived.

The half-elf in question sat at a desk, fingers tracing over an old quilt in his lap. Maglor did not have a body in this dream, but if he had, he would have reared back in shock, for he recognized the quilt he had given as part of Elrond's adoption. He had expected that Elrond would have long since burned it.

_ Alas for Faramir! _ thought Elrond.  _ I could have spared him this if I had but stayed. Would it have been so terrible? At least then I would not be responsible for the suffering of another. I could have weathered it, I would have lived. In misery, yes, but I would have lived. I do not think he would have killed me unless I were to do something very foolish. _

_ Would it truly have been so awful that I would, even knowing how it would affect this poor child, still choose the same? Time has dulled much of the memory, I know, but I had rather endure torment than subject another to it. _

_ I know I am lying to myself. It would indeed be near unbearable; there was a reason I left. I would never wish it on anyone. _

_ But why now? What made him come out of the woodwork to steal these children, when he had not done anything of the kind for so long? Unless-- _

"Oh no," dream-Elrond whispered to himself in horror. "Faramir and his brother are not the first, they are only the first I have  _ heard _ of. There must have been a line of them, stretching back perhaps even to when we left."

_ This is my fault, _ he thought, bringing a hand to his mouth to stifle a sob.  _ All those people, all those children! If I had known that this was to be the consequence of my freedom, I would have found a way to endure even through eternity. _

_ Surely the shame of calling myself his son, even along with all I would have to suffer as his prisoner, would be better than this guilt. _

_ But no, perhaps -- perhaps he knowingly let us go, because we were no longer content to pretend. Perhaps he cast us aside apurpose, to find new "sons" who were more impressionable, not adults who no longer needed parenting. _

_ I do not know which is worse. _

_ But either way I have failed my family, my nephews, for I doubt not that most have been Númenórean and looked like us. Have I not betrayed my kin by abandoning them to such a fate? How am I better than my tormentor and his family? _

_ How happy I had been to forget I am still one of them, bound to their House and their blood by adoption. Perhaps they saw in me this capacity for cruelty and decided I would be a suitable heir. _

Maglor knew he had no voice in the dream, and could not be heard, but he tried to speak, to reassure. "Elrond, do not blame yourself! I stole no other children, and even if I had it would not be your fault, but mine alone. You have done nothing wrong, it was only my own evil that moved me to bind you to my House. Please. I cannot stand to see you so unhappy, though it is by my actions that you are made so. I let you go because the foulness of my deeds became apparent to me, and I wished not to hurt you further. You are no monster like we were, like I am, you are good and kind and everything I tried to train out of you."

Elrond gave no indication of hearing him, but as he spoke, the dream changed.

The six-pointed star sigil of Eärendil, which decorated every inch of the valley, melted into the eight-pointed star of Fëanor, and Maglor realized with dread what this next dream would be.

This was wish-fulfillment-Elrond, the embodiment of Maglor's abhorrent fantasy in which his children had actually loved him, and without fail it left Maglor sick with guilt. These dreams felt different than the others, most likely a mocking punishment from Irmo for wanting things he could not have.

This Elrond smiled fondly at something on the wall that had not been there before, and Maglor turned to see an elegantly drawn map framed and placed behind glass, one that he would recognize anywhere: Maedhros's adoption gift to the twins. In reality, it had probably been lost or damaged or purposefully destroyed, but here it was lovingly preserved and displayed for all to see.

These dreams tended not to have a narrative, and instead simply followed Elrond around his pleasant domestic life, where there were ubiquitous little reminders of his adoptive parents. There were the stars, of course, and in two out-of-the-way corners of Imladris stood statues of Maedhros and Maglor. Sometimes Elrond would affectionately mention them in passing.

Dream-Elrond folded up the quilt with care and hugged it to his chest before putting it away, and left the room cheerfully humming a song Maglor had taught him.

It was too much.

This was what Maglor could have had, if only he had been less of a monster. His legacy could have been this gentle fondness rather than the terror and the scars he had left behind. But even in the dreams, he was not actually part of Elrond’s life (some things were just too unrealistic), and the vision was tinged with Maglor’s own sense of wrongdoing: for Elrond to love his adoptive fathers was one thing, but to use their emblems when he could use those of Elwing and Eärendil, who were unimaginably worthier? This dream-Elrond might care for him, but Maglor had driven him from even the memory of his real parents.

And that was his last thought before awaking.

* * *

The bustle of the streets filtered up through the tower's windows as the sunlight flooded in.

Maglor rubbed his eyes. He had a feeling that Denethor would want to speak with him today, which meant, since he had long ago decided to save time by just playing the role the kings and stewards expected of him, that he would have to be dramatic and cryptic.

(Maglor assumed that his limited foreknowledge abilities were only the result of having had nothing to do for three thousand years. He was not entirely incorrect, but Minas Tirith, as with most of Gondor, was covered in the Gondorian star, which let him perceive things, just as the star on the Doors of Durin did, though to a lesser extent than a proper Fëanorian sigil would.)

From the nearby plaza he heard children singing a familiar song:

_ The Jailbird's in the tower, singing songs of woe. _

_ The lovers in the bower know it's time to go. _

_ Oh! Jailbird, Jailbird, why so sad? _

_ Stuck in prison and he's gone mad! _

_ The Jailbird's in the tower, singing songs of stars. _

_ He's dreaming of spring flowers and life outside the bars. _

_ Oh! Jailbird, Jailbird, why so sad? _

_ Play us a song and make us glad! _

_ The Jailbird's in the tower, singing songs of fear. _

_ The Enemy's a coward and won't come fight him here. _

_ Oh! Jailbird, Jailbird, why so sad? _

_ Stuck in prison and he's gone mad! _

_ The Jailbird's in the tower, singing songs of gloom. _

_ And he predicts the hour when we'll meet our doom. _

_ Oh! Jailbird, Jailbird, why so sad? _

_ Play us a song and make us glad! _

Maglor slowly relaxed as the rather foreboding lyrics washed over him.

He had been having more nightmares ever since Faramir and his group had left Lothlórien, and it was taking its toll. So was trying to protect Boromir in battle and Faramir’s companions from whatever curse of the Enemy was trying to drive a wedge between them. It was some sort of temptation and discord curse that Maglor desperately tried to hold back, but tensions grew every day. It was all he could do to put up a flimsy shield between people and whatever the object of temptation was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you all for reading! please leave comments and kudos if you liked it :)
> 
> also don't forget to check out Jailbird Songs for explanations of the music!


	16. Making Arrangements

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Denethor and Maglor have a talk, and the Fellowship breaks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello folks! in case you haven't noticed, the Tolkien Reverse Summer Bang works are up, including my collaboration with maglor_still_lives! it's called A Preliminary Study of the History of Tol Himling, and if you like maglor and outside pov and fictional academia you will LOVE it, so please check that out!
> 
> silm notes for this chapter:  
> -maglor sings a song in this one but he's not gonna sing the full text until later. is the song about the silmarils? is it about e&e? who knows!  
> -to explain the above comment, after one silmaril was stolen from morgoth, he only had two shiny rocks, and the other became the morning/evening star. meanwhile e&e's names refer to stars and the evening star is their dad  
> -faramir's warning is mostly future vision and partly a reference to túrin turambar who killed his best friend/possible boyfriend thinking he was an orc  
> -aragorn knows that song bc elrond knows it

Denethor had spoken to his advisors, and they had agreed with his plan. It was time to make a deal with the Jailbird. He trudged up the tower, trying to ignore both his mounting nerves and a twinge of something deep in his chest that disliked the idea of trading Faramir. He silenced that twinge.

(He knew Faramir had been lost long ago; there was no denying it. Since having spent long hours with the Tower-Singer, he could not be trusted to have Gondor's best interests at heart.)

Before entering the tower-top room, Denethor paused to reread the rules and observations outside the door, partly as a way to delay the conversation and partly to refamiliarize himself with the strange being. There were no rules as such against what he was about to do, though most likely because no one had ever been foolish or desperate enough to try it.

He pushed open the door.

The Jailbird sat by the window, singing something soft and sweet and sorrowful. It was not in Sindarin; if Denethor had to guess he would say it was Quenya. He could understand little, but there were enough cognates for him to decipher that the plaintive song was about two of something, hidden somewhere unreachable, and a line about the Morning Star bringing hope to them.

Denethor ignored it, and cleared his throat.

The Jailbird ceased his singing and looked up, but made no move to stand.

“Greetings, Steward Denethor, son of Steward Ecthelion,” he said in his unearthly, musical voice. “Do you come seeking my counsel?”

“Indeed I do not. Instead I seek your aid.”

The Jailbird cocked his head. “What aid may I give from this tower to one who walks freely in the world?”

“I must protect Gondor from those who would conquer, by guile or by force. Enemies abound, and I have not the power to hold them all off myself. I ask for your assistance in defending Gondor by your arts, to keep hearts and minds true and repel attack,” said Denethor, heart racing. If this did not work, he would need to find another plan, and quickly. “Of course, you would be given something in return for your aid.”

“I have no use for gold or jewels, and releasing me is out of the question,” said the Jailbird. “What is it you have that you think I could want?”

“Aside from access to the Minas Tirith Library and all the books therein?” Denethor steeled himself. “Faramir.”

The elf’s eyes widened. For a moment he did not speak.

“Clearly you are not so in need of my help as you may act,” he said finally. “If you were truly desperate, you would have named Boromir.”

The elf was right, of course. Firstborn children were traditional, and Boromir was more valuable, but Denethor needed him to lead Gondor’s armies. This deal was crucial; he had to do anything short of releasing the elf or giving him Boromir to make it work.

To Denethor’s surprise, the elf spoke. “But we have a deal.” The elf held out a hand to shake. “You will no longer ban Faramir from speaking to me if he so chooses, and you will let him make his own decisions, and I will do as best I can to protect Gondor from threat, inside and out.”

In other words, allow Faramir to become entirely enchanted, do nothing about it, turn a blind eye to his mind-turning, and as a consequence, save Gondor.

It was the best offer he would get.

“Deal.”

* * *

Maglor was glad when Denethor left. He would have happily helped to protect Gondor if the Steward had only asked, but instead Denethor had leveraged his parental affection for Faramir and threatened the boy's happiness.

(Strange as it was, spending time with Maglor seemed to make Faramir happy, probably because he was a better authority figure than Denethor -- a horrifying thought -- and making him happy was of utmost importance. Faramir being separated from his support system was not something Maglor could allow.)

At least he'd managed to bargain for increased freedom for Faramir, though as always Denethor was loath to give up any control over his eldest.

It was better than nothing. He returned to strengthening the hearts of Faramir and his companions.

* * *

The Ring continued to erode the Fellowship and its members.

Faramir himself was affected little -- that is, he heard the ring speak to him, but it was not so exhausting to push it away.

_ Think how proud your father will be, _ it whispered,  _ he will finally see your quality when you bring me to Minas Tirith and defeat the Enemy with my power. And the knowledge I could grant you! Do you not burn to know more and more? Do you not hunger for answers? _

"Shut up," Faramir muttered aloud. At the quizzical glances from his friends, he said, "The Ring again. It will not be silent."

They all nodded in understanding. The only ones who had not yet absentmindedly admonished the Ring aloud were Frodo and Sam.

Aragorn had been hurt the most by its wiles; he confided to Faramir that it preyed on his insecurity about being king, and promised to make him a mighty leader who would defeat the Shadow and rule a vast empire. At times, when the pull was too great, he would give up his weapons and walk under the guard of two of his non-hobbit companions while the third traveled along with the Ringbearer at a distance away from him.

He was still willing to trust his companions and purposefully weaken himself that he would not be able to take the Ring, so no matter what else he said, Faramir believed he was not yet too far gone.

It was during one of these episodes, when Aragorn was unarmed and the Fellowship was not all together, that the orcs attacked.

They had been on the bank of the Anduin, near Cair Andros, and Aragorn was guarded by Legolas and Gimli while Faramir took the hobbits foraging for edible berries, an activity they enjoyed.

Faramir heard the cry for help from Legolas first, and worried that Aragorn had fallen to the Ring’s influence. But when Aragorn’s voice called out as well, he knew something had gone terribly wrong.

“Come, I cannot leave you unprotected,” he said, gesturing to the hobbits. “But stay out of Aragorn’s reach, just in case.”

The five started running in the direction the shouts had come from, but they never arrived in the place they had left their companions. The orcs found them first.

Faramir managed to fight off the ones that attacked him, but by the time he defeated them, another group had taken Merry and Pippin.

He took a deep breath to call for help in return when Frodo stopped him.

"Sam and I will continue to Mordor alone and in secrecy. You must rescue Pippin and Merry."

Faramir looked into Frodo's eyes and knew there would be no persuading him otherwise. He sighed. "Good fortune go with you, Samwise and Frodo, and may the Star of High Hope light your path."

"It already does," said Sam. "Or don't you remember the light the Lady gave him?"

Faramir smiled, and a flash of foresight hit him. "I do remember. But if I may give you a brief word of warning: trust one another, and be true, for a quest of two or even three cannot succeed if you do not know yourselves and each other. Remember who the real Enemy is."

Being, at this point, accustomed to Faramir's visions and the advice he gave, Sam and Frodo simply nodded gravely.

"Good luck!" said Sam, and the pair went off towards the boats to cross the river.

Faramir turned and ran towards Aragorn, Gimli, and Legolas.

When he arrived, Aragorn was on the ground, bleeding from a bad wound in his side as Gimli put pressure on it and Legolas searched frantically for bandages.

All three looked up at Faramir's approach.

"Where… where are the hobbits?" said Aragorn dizzily, barely able to keep his head up.

"Frodo and Sam have taken a boat to go on alone, but Merry and Pippin were taken by the orcs," said Faramir. "I am sorry -- I could not save them. But I think I can heal you, if I may."

"Please do," said Gimli, noticing that Aragorn was moments from unconsciousness. "We do not blame you, Faramir," he said as Faramir settled down beside him. "There were many orcs, and we shall go after our hobbits as soon as we are capable."

Faramir gave a weak smile in thanks and began to sing a song of healing.

Boromir had always been better at such things, but Faramir too had been trained, and this was a fairly simple gash on the side, though severe in its size and probably poisoned by the weapon that had inflicted it. He started with a very simple song, one that would ease pain and encourage the body to heal itself.

He was so caught up in his plans --  _ sing any infection and poison out, clean and bandage it, slow the blood loss, try to remember the verse of the song of joining that closes wounds _ \-- that he nearly missed Aragorn saying something almost coherent in his disoriented mumblings.

"I know that song," he said, trying to hum along, before lapsing back into muttering.

"Did he hit his head?" asked Faramir, already knowing the answer.

Legolas returned, having found the healing kit. "He did. He was trying to dodge an arrow and moved right into the path of a club. Will he live?" The elf sounded worried.

"It looks so. I--" Faramir broke off and debated with himself for a moment. "I believe I can save him, but I will need much sleep afterwards. I have not the precision of a great healer; it will take much of my strength to do this in the fashion I am capable of."

(The fashion of healing in question was to simply overwhelm the body with the desire to heal and help it along a bit. Boromir's inexhaustible strength of heart made him quite good at it, but Faramir tired more easily. Neither of them had ever had the time to devote to learning the nuances of healing.)

"Do it," said Legolas. "We need you both, and one of us asleep is better than one of us dead."

"And who knows? Perhaps you shall have another helpful dream," said Gimli.

Faramir got to work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next up is the letters faramir sent from lothlorien and also some fun minas tirith superstitions :)
> 
> please leave comments and kudos and check out my TRSB work!!


	17. The Home Front

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which two letters are received.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> double update day! i just uploaded the final chapter of With Eyes of Nightingales which you should DEFINITELY read if you like spooky eldritch horror elrond
> 
> uhhh no silm notes for this one! anything in this chapter has already been covered

Boromir tore open the letter from his brother, excited to hear how he fared. It read:

> _ "Dear Boromir, _
> 
> _ We have crossed the mountains, and though we will have left by the time you receive this, we currently reside in Lothlórien. I hate to give such bad tidings, but Mithrandir is lost; he fell protecting us. We are mourning and recovering from our injuries here. _
> 
> _ I have met the Lady of Lothlórien, and she is just as the Jailbird said she was, wise and radiant. She gave us gifts -- do you remember the legends of elvish bread baked so that a single bite is a meal? It is real, and we were all given a great deal of it. I shall share it with you if I have any left by the time I see you. _
> 
> _ I was also given a long dagger, patterned with sword lilies and laurel leaves. I can almost See something when I look upon it, a shock of golden hair shimmering in the light of morning. _
> 
> _ The forest here is beautiful, so tranquil and filled with music. I was surprised at first that my companion Legolas did not immediately run off to befriend the trees, but instead spoke with another of our company, Gimli. They were at odds for a long while, but now seem to be falling in love. _
> 
> _ Be careful and stay safe. _
> 
> _ Love, _
> 
> _ Faramir" _

Boromir smiled. His brother had always wanted to visit the realms to the north, and had finally gotten the chance, though the circumstances were not what he had hoped for.

He carefully tucked the letter, with its enclosed plant specimens and a note for the Jailbird, into his pack. He had a meeting with the Rangers of Ithilien today.

* * *

The people of Minas Tirith were not, by and large, the superstitious sort. Living practically on the Enemy's doorstep did that to a person; east was where your doom would come from, not breaking a mirror.

The only real exception to this, of course, was the Jailbird.

Oh, he (or she or they or it, or any number of possible pronouns, though his voice was a haunting tenor) was supposed to be a great secret, but it was hard to miss the constant singing and the slight ever-present glow from the southeast tower of the citadel.

This had been going on for so many centuries that no one knew who was in there or for how long.

Here were the facts:

He sang constantly, songs in a multitude of languages, but mainly Sindarin and what scholars managed to identify as Quenya.

He had been there at least five hundred years, judging by the age of stories passed down that included him.

He seemed to know things he should not be able to, judging by the song he always sang before any word had reached the city of a battle.

Based on this evidence, he was either an elf or some sort of spirit.

The people of Minas Tirith knew better than to trust either.

It was said that if you sang back to the Jailbird, replied to his song, you would fall under his spell, that he stole away bad children, not even bothering to leave a changeling behind (very much false, the only children he had stolen were fairly well behaved, and besides, where would he keep them all?), that all the birds were his eyes and ears outside the tower.

It was said that the first line of his song you heard upon waking on the day of your birth would predict your future, that all those Gondorians who died in battle heard his voice calling them home, that if you listened too closely to him on the night of Midsummer you would hear him sing the story of your death.

* * *

Denethor had received another letter from the bespelled Faramir, the son that was no longer his own but the Tower-Singer's, and he opened it with trepidation.

> _ "Dear Father, _
> 
> _ My companions and I have come to the forest of Lothlórien, which is so beautiful it almost does not seem real. It feels like a place apart, almost another world." _

This matched the descriptions of elven lands given by those lucky few who ever returned, a place where reality was so sharp and so very  _ real _ that it crossed the line into unbelievability.

> _ "The Lady of this land welcomed us all and invited us to her table. Since we have arrived, I have never once heard the elves cease in their singing. It is enchanting, and I find I could gladly listen to it for a long time. More than once have I joined in the song; I could hardly stop myself." _

He had eaten their food, too! Ai, Denethor should have taught him better, he was lost. Yes, Denethor had already agreed to give him away, but the Jailbird might have to remove the enchantments of others to properly turn his mind, and displeasing the elf who had agreed to aid him would be unwise.

On the other hand, Denethor had only agreed to let Faramir do as he would, and had nothing to do with what was happening to him at present.

Hopefully Faramir would not sing or dance himself to death in the revels of the Witch of Lothlórien in the meantime, or otherwise perish for the amusement of the supposed Heir of Isildur.

> _ "I am happy to say that Prince Legolas and Gimli son of Glóin have for the most part ceased their enmity, and even seem to be enamored with each other." _

The dwarf had fallen to the prince's enchantment, then. A pity. At least Faramir was not quite so ensorcelled yet, or at least did not seem so. He still wrote like himself, if nothing else. Denethor read on.

> _ "Our journey continues; we shall not remain in this forest long, though it is lovely beyond description. Our road lies south. I know not if we shall come to Minas Tirith just yet, but I hope to see you and Boromir soon. _
> 
> _ Your son, _
> 
> _ Faramir" _

It was a surprise that Faramir had lived this long, really. Had the Wild Hunt not taken place? No, there was no further mention of those hobbit creatures; they must have been killed. There had to be other designs for Faramir.

But what?

It had something to do with the Heir of Isildur, that was certain. Perhaps he needed someone from Gondor (the Steward's son, no less!) to be his guide, to introduce him to society, to get him past the gates. Faramir was, unfortunately, not uninfluential.

There had to be more to it than that, though; elves, and presumably those Men raised to be more elven than human, made everything a sick joke. What was this one?

Ah, that was it. A show of power.

They would enthrall Faramir entirely, and Isildur's Heir would then flaunt his conquest before his family and the people of Minas Tirith. He might even plan to keep Faramir around after becoming king.

He would have to kill Denethor, of course, and Boromir. Neither would fall so easily to enchantment.

The Jailbird would likely have to work to regain Faramir for himself, and undo the magicks of Isildur's Heir, but that was not Denethor's problem. If this plan worked, at least Faramir would not be lost in vain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> denethor really is trying to do his best for gondor but that gets in the way of doing his best for his kids unfortunately :( it would be less bad if he, like, actually cared that much about faramir in the first place
> 
> as always please leave comments and kudos if you liked it :)
> 
> also check out With Eyes of Nightingales, and my TRSB fic A Preliminary Study of the History of Tol Himling!


	18. Enter Théodred

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Faramir meets Éowyn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fun coincidence, today's the 18th and you get ch18!! v exciting
> 
> Notes:  
> -the oath of cirion / éorl was the oath of eternal friendship bt rohan and gondor  
> -apparently the third time is in fact the charm because this is the only Oath sworn to eru that didn't end in tragedy!  
> -the first 2 were The Oath TM and the oath of the last alliance that got the army of the dead stuck as ghosts

Days passed as the newly-named Four Hunters raced across Rohan, following the path of the orcs that had taken Merry and Pippin (once Faramir had woken up from his exhausted sleep after healing Aragorn, of course).

On the fifth day of their chase, they met a group of riders from Rohan, led by Prince Théodred.

When he saw them, the prince cried, "Hail, Faramir! What tidings? And who be your fellow travellers?"

Faramir waited until they were closer to reply, "Hail and well met, Prince Théodred of Rohan! It is good to see you. These folk with me have been my companions over a long and treacherous road. But first I must ask you, have you seen a great pack of orcs come by this way? For we are pursuing them."

"They have indeed, last night, and we met them with force. We killed and burned every one."

"And did you see with them a pair of hobbits? They are small folk, and might be mistaken for children," said Aragorn.

"Nay, we saw none such, but did find a brooch like that which you wear, by the edge of Fangorn Forest," said Prince Théodred, pulling something out of his pocket and handing it to Faramir.

It was one of the leaf-brooches that the Lady Galadriel had given to each member of the Fellowship. It did not appear to have been broken in any way, so it must have been taken off deliberately, so as to leave a trail.

Faramir passed the brooch to Aragorn to examine as Prince Théodred continued. "My riders and I plan to return westward today, and go to guard the Fords of Isen. We do not trust the wizard Saruman."

"Nor should you," said Gimli, "for he has turned his allegiance to the Enemy, as the wizard Gandalf discovered."

"You are friends of Gandalf Greyhame and of noble Faramir? Then be known as friends of mine, and come with me to defend against Isengard."

The Hunters looked to Aragorn.

Legolas said, "Forests are unfriendly to orcs, and ever have been. Fangorn will shelter Pippin and Merry from them, if that is where they went."

"And if some orcs escaped with them, they are on their way to Isengard," Gimli finished.

Faramir murmured, so as not to be heard by any of the Rohirrim, "As the rightful ruler of Gondor, you are at least theoretically bound by the Oath of Cirion to aid Rohan if they ask for help. And that particular vow is one of the  _ very _ binding ones, if you take my meaning."

(Faramir had told the Jailbird about Steward Cirion and his Oath when his tutors had taught it to him. The elf had become very upset, especially upon finding out that Steward Cirion had called upon Eru to witness the vow, and had told Faramir that he was in no circumstances to do anything of the sort.)

Aragorn inclined his head. "We accept your invitation, Prince Théodred."

As they were given horses, Prince Théodred whispered to Faramir in Rohirric. "Can they be trusted? You travel with an elf, and a very elven Man. And though Gandalf is an ally, we are in conflict with another wizard. You need not tell me your errand," he reassured when Faramir looked about to speak, "I trust your judgement."

"They are trustworthy," said Faramir in the same language. "The wizard Saruman is an enemy of ours and of Mithrandir's, worry not."

Théodred smiled and spoke again in Westron, with a light blush. "Good! Now tell me, what news of Boromir?"

* * *

To the surprise of no one at all, there was a battle at the fords, a great number of Uruk-Hai sweeping down out of the north. Based on their movements in battle, their sole aim was to kill Théodred. Luckily, that behavior kept them from being in a position to actually win, and soon the Hunters and the Rohirrim dispatched the orcs.

In the aftermath, with Théodred nursing his injuries (less than they could have been, thanks to Gimli dispatching a warhammer-wielding orc that had caught him unawares), Faramir asked, "What is next? We are not enough to press on to Isengard, even were we not so injured."

"We must return to Edoras," said Théodred, "now that we have this battle as evidence of Saruman's treachery. Perhaps it will convince my father."

* * *

They soon came to the city of Edoras, which was just as beautiful (and covered in horse motifs) as Faramir remembered.

But before they entered, they were met by a familiar face.

"Mithrandir?" cried Legolas. "It cannot be!"

But Mithrandir, for it was indeed the wizard, though he dressed now in white rather than gray, smiled. "It can! Though I am no longer Gandalf the Gray but Gandalf the White. Well met, my friends! I have returned from a great battle -- one which my former companions here witnessed but the start of -- to heal Théoden King from the witchery of Saruman that preys upon him."

"How do we know we can trust you?" said Gimli. "You may not be Gandalf at all, and the other White Wizard is no friend of ours. We cannot only take your word for it."

At that, Mithrandir looked directly into Faramir's eyes and spoke to him through ósanwe.  _ It is a nice hair clasp you have, with a familiar sigil. From your tutor in the tower, perhaps? _ he asked pointedly.

Faramir unconsciously reached up to touch the clasp. "He is telling the truth," he said. "Do you know what became of Merry and Pippin? For we have lost them, and believe they entered Fangorn Forest."

"I did notice that the fool of a Took was not with you. They shall be safe in Fangorn, for that is where the Ents live." At Legolas's deep inhale, him being clearly about to ask a thousand questions, Mithrandir hurriedly said, "But there is no time. Let us help the king."

Théodred nodded and led them to Meduseld. "I hope you can, Gandalf. He is not himself."

A few minutes later, after reaching the hall, they were granted audience with the king (or, rather, Théodred was granted audience and brought everyone along with him).

Théoden King sat upon his throne, looking far frailer and weaker than Faramir could ever remember him being, and his thoughts slow and sluggish. To his right sat someone who must be Grima Wormtongue, in whose mind Faramir could clearly see both cruelty and the influence of Saruman, looking smug. And to the king's left --

Faramir's breath caught as foresight assailed him.

There again was the flash of the morning sun on golden hair that he saw when he looked upon the dagger from Lady Galadriel, but now he saw more.

He saw a great shadow sweeping over the land and himself facing it, unflinching, a hand held in his own. He saw the light of daybreak flood his vision, and heard a thousand voices cry out in victory. The words of an ancient prophecy rang through his mind as he saw the gleam of light upon a blade and a terrible darkness crumbling to harmless dust.

When his visions faded, he saw anew the woman seated to the left of Théoden King, and knew at once this must be Lady Éowyn, cousin to Prince Théodred.

Faramir nearly tripped over his own feet at the sight of her, and actively avoided seeing her mind as would normally be natural. Luckily, he was not in the front of the group, so no one saw his awkwardness.

Théodred approached the throne and bowed, saying, "Greetings, father."

The king said nothing.

"I have ill tidings," Théodred continued. "My riders and I were attacked at the Fords of Isen by a great band of orcs, who focused on nothing so much as trying to kill me. They came from the north, out of Isengard."

"My king, this is ridiculous," said Wormtongue. "Why would these orcs target Prince Théodred? And they could not have come from Isengard, Saruman is our ally."

Mithrandir stepped forward in a swirl of white robes. "Were you not so obviously complicit in the treachery of Saruman, Grima Wormtongue, I would call you a witless and ignorant fool for not noticing what is right before your eyes. As it stands, you are a witless and ignorant fool anyhow. No more shall your sorcery triumph over the mind of Théoden King!"

He did something that made Faramir's teeth hurt with the sheer power of magic. Could he not have done this some other way that was less unpleasant for the rest of them?

But it seemed to have worked, for the king's eyes cleared, and Wormtongue fled in fear.

* * *

Éowyn was glad beyond measure that her uncle had returned to himself, and that Wormtongue had left. She had not felt safe since he had begun pouring his poison into Théoden's ear, and despite the presence of an elf (fey and unpredictable creatures as they were), she no longer felt such danger.

Théodred and his guests explained the situation and their recent doings.

"All is not sorted yet," Éowyn said. "Grima has likely run back to Saruman, who will retaliate, for I do not doubt he desires mastery over Rohan, and we have thwarted him this day."

"We shall not be able to hold the Fords, especially without Éomer's riders, but perhaps we may lead Saruman's forces to Helm's Deep, keeping them from Edoras," said Théodred.

Théoden nodded. "Then we shall." He turned to his visitors. "I thank you, Gandalf, for freeing me from the spell of Saruman, and you, Gimli son of Glóin, for saving my son's life. I would welcome your help once more in defeating this evil that threatens us. Éowyn shall rule Edoras while Théodred and I are away."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please leave comments and kudos if you liked it!!!


	19. With the Rising of the Sun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Faramir falls head over heels.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so i heard you guys like eowyn content judging from the comments on the last chapter,,
> 
> anyway in this house we LEAN IN to the eowyn-fingolfin parallels
> 
> to explain that, have some notes:  
> -fingolfin was feanor's half brother and elrond's great great grandpa, who arrived in middle earth with the first sunrise and yelled at sauron's old boss  
> -he also challenged sauron's boss to a duel which went about as well as can be expected  
> -also there's this whole Thing in an unrelated first age battle where people say stuff like "the night is passing" and "the day has come" and "day shall come again" and honestly I'll never be over it so...  
> -saruman used to be sauron's coworker before sauron went evil, and feanor's wife Nerdanel's dad was aule's student  
> -yes that is a very weird relationship to have to feanor but hey

It was determined that word should be sent to Lord Éomer by Mithrandir, alerting him to the situation, and Faramir would remain at Meduseld until he arrived, then ride with him to the Hornburg. Aragorn, Gimli, and Legolas would accompany the king and prince there now while Lady Éowyn led Edoras in the meantime.

The next morning, the riders set off for Helm's Deep.

Only minutes after they left, Lady Éowyn gave the order to fortify the city. "For if they succeed not in drawing the full force of the enemy towards themselves, we shall be besieged," she said. "We must ready ourselves. You may help, too," she added as an afterthought, pushing a bundle of swords and daggers into Faramir's arms. "These need to be sharpened."

Faramir obediently followed her to an armory and got to work. She, too, began cleaning and sharpening weapons while a steady stream of people came in and out of the room to speak to her.

Lady Éowyn held court in the armory as she continued, giving orders and solving problems with barely a pause in the work of her hands. Faramir found himself admiring her leadership, and understanding why the people of Rohan seemed to love her so.

A few hours later, when all the weapons and armor in the room were ready to face battle, Lady Éowyn stood, gathering those arms that were presumably her own.

"Thank you," she said. "Now, know you much of healing? For I must ensure that our healers are well supplied, and I know little of the craft."

"It is not my strongest skill, though I have been taught the rudiments. I would gladly accompany you if you believe I would be of some assistance." Ai, her voice was like the summer sun filtering through leaves -- he shut that thought down. Such fanciful language had no place outside of poetry and song. And what did that even  _ mean,  _ anyhow?

Faramir shook such thoughts from his head, though his admiration and regard for the Lady grew with every passing minute. He was meant to be helping.

* * *

In the early evening there came a horn-call.

"Éomer has come," said Lady Éowyn. "Prepare to receive several wounded Rohirrim, if I guess aright."

They and much of the household went out to meet Lord Éomer and his riders, where they found that Lord Éomer himself had been injured.

"A scrap with orcs," he said, "and though the wound is not serious, I shall not be able to fight for at least a day or two. There is not time."

Lady Éowyn's eyes hardened. "Then I shall."

"Lady Éowyn--" Mithrandir began.

"No. I am going," she said in a tone that brooked no argument. She turned to give orders to the riders. "Get your wounded to the healing wing and ready yourselves. We ride at sundown for the Hornburg, to destroy at last the forces of Saruman, bitter foe of the Rohirrim."

She paused, then said, "Sir Faramir, ride you with us?"

"I will, my lady."

* * *

Aragorn began to lose hope.

He had thought that this battle would not be so desperate as it was turning out to be, but the forces of Isengard were legion, and they had found some way to break through a weak spot in the walls of Helm's Deep.

He was forced to conclude that this was a losing battle, that the only thing likely to save them was Éomer's arrival, and even that might be too late, for they had already lost so many. Aragorn had already lost track of the hours spent fighting in the dark.

But just then there came a glimmer of golden light in the darkness, on a hilltop to the east.

The sun burst over the ridge, and so too did a rider with a familiar voice, calling, "Éorlingas! Now comes the dawn, your battle is not in vain!"

For it was Lady Éowyn herself who led these riders and brought the sun with her, and in the light of day with hope rekindled, the Rohirrim and their allies fell upon the armies of Saruman and defeated them.

* * *

Once the battle ended, and the many wounded and dead were seen to, Théoden King resolved that he should go to confront Saruman now that Isengard was emptied.

Mithrandir and the Four Hunters were to accompany him, while the king's son and niece took care of their people. Lord Éomer would remain in command of Edoras for the time being.

(The Rohirrim were already composing songs about the Lady's triumph, her glorious light-bringing charge. Faramir was quite tempted to write his own.)

The northward ride was tense, everyone on edge and expecting an ambush. But none came. In fact, the closer they got, they could see Isengard the better, and it did not look like the imposing place it once had, for most of its towers were gone and all its fires out.

And at the gate to greet them were Merry and Pippin.

"Hello, friends and strangers!" said Merry. "Welcome to Isengard! Please do excuse the mess, as we are undergoing serious redecoration."

Pippin shielded his eyes with a hand from the glare of the sun. "Gandalf, is that you? And here we thought you were dead!"

"It is indeed I," said Mithrandir. "Would you mind explaining what exactly has happened?"

"It's very simple," said Merry. "You see, we escaped those orcs who took us and went into the forest, where we met old Treebeard the Ent and all his friends, and we decided to attack Isengard together, for Saruman had been burning so many trees."

"Saruman has holed himself up in the big tower and we can't get in, so we waited for you Big Folk to come do something about it, as he is mostly your problem," said Pippin.

"Well, we are indeed glad to see you safe!" said Aragorn.

The party entered Isengard together, full of wonder at the scale of the destruction wrought by the Ents.

"Now, beware Saruman's voice," said Mithrandir. "It is a great part of his power, and cornered as he is, I know not what he will do."

When they arrived at Orthanc, Saruman's voice did indeed wind around his listeners like a snake, or rather like delicate binding chains, and Faramir felt dizzy.

He pushed it away and interrupted the wizard. "A fine welcome you have given us. Not even a greeting have you spoken before trying to enter our minds!"

The spell broke.

Théoden King proceeded to enter a screaming match with Saruman, the particulars of which Faramir did not quite understand, but the death threats on both sides were terrifyingly detailed. Mithrandir joined in, apparently just to insult Saruman to his face.

"Wait, what's that he holds behind his back?" interrupted Pippin.

Everyone focused in on the strange stone the wizard was clutching tight. When he noticed their attention, Saruman dropped it and ran away.

"Let him go," said Mithrandir. "Let this be his second chance, and hope he does not squander it. The Ents shall keep him under guard in any case."

(Saruman cursed.

How did he have the ill fortune to run into not one but  _ two _ mortal scions of Nerdanel, daughter of his former colleague in the forges of Aulë?)

Mithrandir examined the object that Saruman had dropped. It appeared to be a sphere of glass, with swirling colors all inside. Faramir recognized it as a palantír, like the one his father pretended not to have.

"A palantír!" Mithrandir breathed. "One of the seven seeing-stones of Númenor! He must have been using it to communicate with the Enemy."

"Really?" said Pippin. "Let me see!" He reached out and placed his hand squarely on the glass.

The smell of ozone filled the air, and Pippin  _ screamed. _

Everyone rushed forward, but Mithrandir held them back just long enough to say, "Do not touch the seeing-stone!"

But as suddenly as he had started his harsh shriek, Pippin silenced. He opened his eyes and carefully removed his hand from the sphere.

"I--" he croaked. "I think I just saw the Enemy."

And he fainted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the lack of songs lately lol, you'll be glad to know that ch22, ch24, and ch26 all have songs! ch29 also will probably but i haven't written that chapter yet
> 
> anyway please leave comments and kudos if you liked it! :) i can't describe how much i love seeing them, it makes me so happy that you all like my work <3


	20. Manners

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Maglor has Guilt Crisis #5, except chronologically it's really #0.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a day later than intended but here it is!
> 
> notes:  
> \- mandos is where dead elves go, humans also go there but they leave after a while to go... somewhere, nobody knows where  
> \- dagor dagorath: the final battle, end of the world

The palantír was not working, and Denethor had had enough.

He had spent all morning attempting to spy on the Enemy, but instead of anything useful, he had been picking up messages of distress from another palantír. They were frequent and embarrassingly desperate-sounding, and greatly impaired his ability to use the seeing-stone.

And the lists outside the tower room did say the Jailbird knew how to troubleshoot with the palantír.

After debating with himself for a full quarter of an hour, Denethor climbed the southeast tower, carrying a book of collected folk songs to trade for the elf’s help. When he reached the top, he heard again the mournful melody of the lilting waltz the Jailbird had sung on his last visit, the one about the pair of lights being rescued by people out of the West (he could hear the capital letter there, and knew it was not Númenor the elf spoke of).

He cleared his throat.

“Having second thoughts about our deal?” asked the Jailbird.

Denethor was, but he quashed his worries and kept it to himself. “No,” he said. “The palantír is not working as it should, and I would like your assistance?”

The Jailbird’s lips quirked. “What do you intend to offer me this time? Permission to speak to Boromir? I would not refuse.”

Of course the elf would not pass up the chance to take away Denethor’s eldest and thus have both of the pair. “I’m afraid not, but I brought a book of songs.” He passed it through the bars for the Tower-Singer to scrutinize.

“Hmm. Hardly traditional, but it will do.” The Jailbird found a place for it on the shelf. “Let me take a look at the stone.”

Denethor placed it on a table within reach, and the Jailbird reached out to place a hand on it.

A minute passed in silence.

The Tower-Singer removed his hand. “The Enemy possesses one of the palantíri, and has used it to lie to you. He is also using his to communicate with one of his servants, who is currently calling for help, and your stone has picked it up. But that is easily fixed.”

Denethor was about to ask how when the elf lifted the palantír and spoke a few sentences in Quenya, and the colors of the stone stopped swirling.

“There,” he said, satisfied. “I have locked the entire network. You shall be able to use your stone, and any other you find, with this password -- ah, let me write it down.” He set down the seeing-stone and wrote a few words of tengwar on a piece of paper, handing it to Denethor. “The rough translation is ‘heirloom of kings, please allow us your sight.' No one shall be able to use it without that."

"Are you sure no one will guess it?"

The Jailbird smirked. "I think not. It has the word 'please' in it, and the Enemy is quite allergic to having manners. It is safe."

Denethor thanked him and left, practicing the words of the passphrase.

* * *

“I can’t explain it,” said Pippin after regaining consciousness. “All of a sudden, nothing was looking anymore, and I couldn’t see either, like a barrier was put up between me and the palantír.”

“What did the barrier feel like? Is it familiar?” asked Gandalf, carefully taking the seeing-stone from its place on the floor with a sneaking suspicion of who was behind this.

“Now that you mention it, yes. It felt like something that I have been feeling in the background for some time now, only come to the surface.”

Gandalf closed his eyes and focused. That was certainly Maglor in the power that kept him from seeing anything; he had gone and password-protected the network. “The barrier holds me, too, but it is not malicious in origin, and it does feel familiar to what protected us in the Dwarrowdelf. I think someone is looking out for us.”

Legolas sputtered, “You call that looking out for us? It felt dreadfully similar to what humans call ‘severe allergies,’ and I did not like it! It still has not abated entirely!”

“Elves don’t have allergies?” murmured Merry. No one noticed.

“You ought to be grateful, Legolas,” said Gandalf. “Whatever is protecting us is very active about it, or have you not noticed your unreasonably good luck in battle?”

“It felt quite comforting to me,” said Faramir.

Someone should really tell that boy he’d been adopted. Someone who wasn’t Gandalf, obviously.

After all, it was hardly  _ his _ business if Elrond had two new brothers, or if the father of the half-elf in question had been for several millennia in Gondor rather than wandering. After all, Maglor  _ had _ asked Gandalf not to tell Elrond anything, and who was he to deny such a request?

* * *

_ The first time Gandalf had met Maglor in the tower, it went like this: _

It was late in the reign of King Ciryandil of Gondor when Gandalf, still familiarizing himself with Middle-Earth, first decided to pay a proper visit to Minas Tirith. When he was acting in an official capacity, he dealt mostly with the king's son Ciryaher, for the king spent most of his time at Umbar. At the time, Men were not quite so unfriendly to elves and wizards as they later became, but neither were they particularly trusting.

Gandalf wandered through the city peacefully, listening to the people of Minas Tirith gossip as they went about their business (in short, enjoying himself immensely), when a mournful and unearthly voice rose in song all around.

He saw nearly everyone make some sort of sign to ward off evil as they quieted their voices, glancing furtively towards a tower with a slight glow coming from it.

"What is that song?" he asked, wondering at the reaction of the folk around him. The singer was skilled indeed, and their voice vaguely familiar. He felt as if he should be able to put a name to it.

A nearby woman whispered, "That's the Singer-in-the-Tower. He sings and plays constantly, but normally we cannot hear it from here on the other side of the city. It bodes ill."

A shopkeeper nodded in agreement. "Generally we don't speak of him," they said. "We don't want to draw his attention."

Gandalf, upon being given a number of warnings, decided he must meet this Singer, and headed for the southeast tower.

Upon reaching it, he claimed the prince had sent him to speak to the one who dwelt there, and the guards let him in without trouble.

He was certainly not expecting, when he reached the top and opened the door, to see Maglor Fëanorion.

"Olórin?" the elf breathed, fingers frozen where they had been playing a harp. "What -- how --" he shook his head. "Are you here to bring me to trial in Aman?"

"No, indeed. I did not even know you were here. Why are you here, by the way?"

"Why do you think?" said Maglor. "The late King Elendil arrested me for my crimes, not least those against his own ancestors, and imprisoned me in this tower for eternity."

Gandalf looked around, unimpressed. "You could break out."

Maglor shrugged. "Of course I could, if I really tried. But why would I? I can hardly deny my deeds; I even wrote songs about them, and here I am both of use advising the kings from time to time and completely unable to hurt anyone. This is enough."

"I suppose you're uninterested in the doings of the elves then?"

Maglor, who had been seated, shot to his feet. "Do you have news of Elrond?" he asked, a note of pain and longing in his voice.

"You have likely heard already, but he has married Celebrían daughter of Galadriel and they have three children. Twin boys, Elladan and Elrohir, and a daughter named Arwen, also called Undómiel."

"I have heard such, yes," said Maglor. "Her name is meant to match that of her cousin Tindómiel, daughter of Elros."

"I have met them -- your grandchildren, are they not? Arwen's needlework is second to none, at least on these shores, and she is learning smithcraft as well. Elladan is an accomplished alchemist, and Elrohir his brother paints scenes so lifelike that people have walked directly into them on more than one occasion."

Maglor's smile faded. "These are good tidings, mistake me not; I am glad for them, and for their father to have such children. But I cannot in good conscience call them my grandchildren, you understand."

Gandalf, who had on more than one occasion been subject to Elrond's despair that he would never find his father (well, the father he did not know the location of: one could be seen every morning and evening and another was assuredly in Mandos), found himself flummoxed. "Did you not adopt Elrond? He denies it not. And I can see upon your fëa the parental bond that connects you two."

Maglor returned to his seat, saying, "I did, I will not lie and claim otherwise, but it was wrong of me to hurt the children so, to claim them as my sons when I had killed their family. I am not his father in any way that matters, save the negative, that I adopted them and raised them when I should not have."

"Shall I tell him you are here?" said Gandalf, knowing the answer.

And, sure enough, "Absolutely not," said Maglor with a glare. "Do you think he wants the reminder of all he has suffered? The knowledge that the very architect of his misery lives still in Middle-Earth? No, I will happily remain here until the Dagor Dagorath, if by some miracle the tower stands long enough, but you will tell no one of my presence; it will only bring them unhappiness. I will not cause any more problems. Tell him I am dead, if you wish, and ease his mind."

Maglor, it appeared, was a fool. One whose thoughts had been twisted by time and by grief, but a fool.

But a potentially very  _ fun _ one, once Elrond figured out where he was.

"Fair enough, I will not tell him anything," said Gandalf.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading! please leave comments and kudos, i cannot express how much they motivate me to keep writing <3


	21. A Strategic Split-Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Faramir gets teased about his crush and Denethor continues to have the wrong idea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello!! i'm back to bring u another chapter :)
> 
> i've been trying to keep up my chapter buffer and uh. let's just say the chapter titles get less serious as the content gets more serious. i ran out of thematic names so you guys get stuff called "dagor bragollach 2: 2 dagor 2 bragollach" and one that's just lyrics from The Music Man
> 
> notes:  
> -murdering people and taking their boats is what got feanor and co exiled from valinor in the first place, middle earth takes boat crimes seriously  
> -idk if i mentioned it before but the other undead army under a mountain is that of ar-pharazon (he doesn't deserve the diacritics in his name) who tried to invade the undying lands  
> -arien is the maia who drives the sun, i love her a lot  
> -NO OATHS!  
> -arwen is a swordsmith, i've decided and i'm right  
> -no homophobia in my middle earth

"Peregrin Took, you shall have to come with me to Minas Tirith," said Mithrandir. "Now that the Enemy has seen you, we must draw his Eye to places other than here. Did you tell him anything about Frodo and Sam?"

"Of course not," said Pippin, miffed.

"Good." Mithrandir turned to the Four Hunters and Merry. "What about you folk, where will you go?"

Faramir had had a dream the night before that provided answers. "We must remain in Rohan for two days at least, for a small band of reinforcements even now rides to us. Then there is an army of the dead beneath a mountain -- well, there are two, but only one is nearby, and we must seek their aid."

Mithrandir nodded and dragged Pippin off.

"Is there anything else you Saw?" asked Aragorn.

Faramir shook his head. "There is too much still uncertain on our part, but Sauron's forces shall indeed make for Minas Tirith soon, and not orcs only; a fleet of ships of Men shall come up the river."

"This bodes ill," said Legolas. "But Rohan shall come to Gondor's aid if the beacons are lit and the Red Arrow delivered."

"I am sure they will be. But if not, I do not doubt Pippin shall sneak a match up to the beacon and light it himself, then steal the Arrow and ride right back here," said Gimli.

Faramir cracked a smile.

Mithrandir called from afar, "If you want to send a letter to your family, Faramir, now is the time! We are leaving in an hour!"

* * *

(A day after the aforementioned conversation, Frodo and Sam were  _ not _ caught by the Rangers of Ithilien as they might have been in another world.

It turns out that very determined-to-hide hobbits, already born with natural sneaking abilities, are quite difficult to find if one does not have psychic powers.)

* * *

Two days later, the Grey Company arrived, led by Halbarad the Dúnadan, who confirmed the need to take the Paths of the Dead.

He also brought Aragorn a special gift from his love, Lady Arwen: a banner with the sigils of Elendil and the White Tree of Gondor with seven stars above it, embroidered with such love and imbued with such power that Faramir's eyes crossed the first time he looked at it.

Aragorn blushed when he received the banner, and the letter that went with it, murmuring to his friends, "My lady is a great craftswoman. It was she who reforged Narsil into Andúril for me."

"Gifts of the giver's own craft are precious indeed," said Gimli, nodding in approval. "She could hardly court the Chieftain of the Dúnedain with less, let alone one who is both that and King of Gondor."

Legolas reached over to his love's hair with a fond grin and tapped gently on the wooden beads in his braids, clearly new and very elvish-looking in their make. Gimli smiled up at him.

"The Rohirrim still need to clear their lands of orcs, so we will meet them at Minas Tirith," said Aragorn, returning to the topic at hand.

"I suppose we are all going on the Paths of the Dead?" said Gimli.

Legolas and Aragorn nodded.

"I shall accompany you there, but afterwards my road lies with the Rohirrim," said Faramir. "You shall have to fight those corsairs that come from Umbar, and take their ships, and I cannot be there, I'm afraid." It was a necessary step, and if they succeeded there would be no particular consequences for it, but Faramir had long internalized an aversion to any sort of crime or bad behavior regarding watercraft and thus refused to participate.

(It did not help that he had seen visions of Boromir, dead, floating down the Anduin in one of the Lothlórien boats. Every day Faramir was more glad that he had undertaken this quest instead.)

His companions nodded in understanding.

"Are you sure this has nothing to do with the Lady Éowyn, though?" asked Gimli as innocently as he could. "You seem quite taken with her, and you have already begun writing her a song--"

"This song, to be precise," says Legolas, flourishing a paper he had stolen from Faramir's pocket.

Aragorn took the paper, despite Faramir's protests, and read the lines of verse scribbled on it. "You know, this is quite good for a verse and a half of a first draft," he said. "The parallel with Arien is very good, and using heroic meter was a nice touch."

"Thank you," Faramir said into his hands, covering his face to hide his blush. "Now give it back, please."

"Did you all forget I was here?" said Merry.

Everyone jumped in startlement.

"I think that's a yes," he said. "Anyway, I shall remain here and help out if I can. But back to the topic at hand -- Faramir, do you  _ like _ her?"

* * *

The less said about the Paths of the Dead, the better.

Faramir did not hold with oaths, so he found the ghosts rather distasteful, not so much for breaking their vows as for having made them in the first place, and with such dire consequences named!

Surely they ought to know better. What was history for, if not to learn from the mistakes of others?

* * *

Denethor raised an eyebrow at Mithrandir. Minas Tirith was soon to be under siege, and he had brought one of these "hobbit" creatures that Faramir had told him of. Apparently one had escaped the Wild Hunt. But bringing in a person running from the elves would only hasten the danger to Gondor, for the elves in question would surely follow.

"And I bring you a letter from Faramir," said Mithrandir.

Denethor sighed. At least his deal with the Jailbird was still valid, if Faramir yet lived. "You may stay, but the city shall not be as safe as you might like. The army of orcs advances, and other enemies of Gondor approach as well." The elves would come here, whether Peregrin Took took shelter in the city or not, and he would not be safe for long. Denethor dismissed his visitors with a wave and opened the letter.

> _ "Dear Father, _
> 
> _ Mithrandir caught up with my group and myself in Rohan, where Théoden King has welcomed us. The White Wizard has been defeated and shall trouble the Rohirrim no more. You may tell Boromir that Prince Théodred is well." _

Rohan had fallen, then, with the death of Saruman the White, its last defense against the trickery of elves. The Witch of Lothlórien had probably laughed.

Denethor knew well his eldest son's budding love for Prince Théodred, and encouraged it (though a diplomatic marriage with Harad would be more useful, he could grant Boromir this). A pity that the prince was now only an elvish puppet.

> _ "Aragorn, whom I have mentioned before as Isildur's Heir, intends to come soon to Minas Tirith, though he takes not the direct route. His betrothed, the elven lady Arwen Undómiel (the daughter of Master Elrond of Imladris), sent him a standard with the signs of Elendil, as well as a group of warriors accompanied by her brothers. It is my hope that you shall see them on the battlefield fighting for Gondor." _

Worse and worse!

It explained much that this "Aragorn" was enamored of an elven princess, who could not be permitted to marry anyone below her station, let alone a mortal; for love of her he must become ruler of Gondor. And her brothers came with warriors to ensure Aragorn's ascent to the throne.

> _ "I shall remain in Rohan for the time being, while Aragorn goes with Legolas and Gimli on a side journey to head off some enemies to the south of Minas Tirith. Should the Red Arrow be delivered to Théoden King, I doubt not that he should answer your call for aid, and of course I would accompany the Rohirrim. _
> 
> _ I hope you are safe. _
> 
> _ Your son, _
> 
> _ Faramir" _

Denethor had already sent the arrow and lit the beacons before he had known of Rohan's fall, but he would not undo that decision if he could. Gondor needed allies against the Enemy; all else could wait.

As soon as Faramir arrived in the city, he too could be locked in the tower, and that particular worry would be gone, Denethor's side of the deal fulfilled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you WILL get to read the poem faramir wrote but i don't have a tune for it yet lol, hopefully i will by the time it gets sung in the story but who knows!
> 
> please leave comments and kudos if you liked it <3


	22. Lightbringers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a tide of darkness flows from Mordor and Maglor has guilt crisis #6.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> new song!!! you can listen to it [here](https://jaz-the-bard.tumblr.com/post/631512912552460288/song-for-chapter-22-of-jailbird-lyrics-under)
> 
> also check out Jailbird Songs, the companion fic to this, for a more detailed explanation :)
> 
> notes:  
> -this is the song that's about e&e and/or the silmarils  
> -morgoth was sauron's boss, killed a ton of people and stole the silmarils, kinda the worst  
> -the evening star is elrond's dad earendil holding a silmaril

Éowyn looked at Faramir of Gondor out of the corner of her eye. He had been extraordinarily helpful so far in both defeating Saruman and planning the next steps against the Enemy, and was altogether a pleasant person to be around.

When given the slightest prompting, he would gladly talk for hours about history and folklore and linguistics, and Éowyn responded in kind, for as the king's niece she was expected to safeguard the Rohirric language and oral tradition as a princess normally would.

(They also got into a discussion on fighting styles. Faramir, as it turned out, was trained as a Ranger and preferred to wield two smaller blades rather than a greatsword.

"--and the day I told them I was a girl, they plucked the sword out of my hand and gave me a shield, because 'women fight only on the defense,'" said Éowyn mockingly.

"I had the opposite problem. I told them I was a boy and suddenly it was 'get out of the library, Faramir' and 'put down the bow and learn to use a sword, Faramir.'"

They both sighed in commiseration.)

It bothered her that they had the _ time _ for this; both of them ought to be helping clear out the orcs, but she was a woman and he was not of Rohan, so there was no place for them to do so. Merry joined them sometimes, for he was not allowed to do battle either.

Faramir would be permitted to go to war alongside the Rohirrim once his father sent for their help, but Éowyn knew neither she nor Merry would be. She had already begun devising a plan to deal with this (it wasn't much of a plan, really, only to put on nondescript armor and a helmet and carry the hobbit on her horse).

But those thoughts were pushed to the side when Faramir gave her the dagger.

It was soon before they were due to leave for Gondor, and he had sought her out.

He said, "Lady Éowyn, I have a gift for you. It was given me by one who is Wise, and I believe it has found its true home with you. Please accept this as a token of my respect and regard." He pulled out a beautiful dagger in a sheath decorated with leaves and flowers. When she drew it, she found that the blade itself was decorated as well, and was finely made.

In other words, the perfect gift. Éowyn felt herself blush to the roots of her hair. "Thank you," she said, not knowing how else to express what she felt.

This would be the perfect dagger to bring into battle. Perhaps it would bring her good luck.

Faramir smiled, and Éowyn melted.

* * *

Maglor opened the little letter that Gandalf had brought him from Faramir.

> _ "Dear Jailbird," _ it read.
> 
> _ "I will be returning to Minas Tirith soon, but not yet. Aragorn plans to convince an army of ghosts to fight with him, and then do something extremely inadvisable that you specifically warned me against on more than one occasion, so I will not be there for that. _
> 
> _ Instead I ride with the Rohirrim, who have recently defeated the wizard Saruman, due in part to the efforts of Théoden King's niece, Lady Éowyn. The king plans to leave her and Prince Théodred behind to guard and rule Rohan, and I can think of no lady better suited to do either. I admire her very much. _
> 
> _ Towards us come reinforcements, and with them a pair of twins that I believe are Master Elrond's sons. They are almost as brothers to Aragorn, who has lived in Imladris for most of his life and is betrothed to Lady Arwen, Master Elrond's daughter. I found the twins to be good company, and I look forward to meeting them again. _
> 
> _ Please stay safe. The city will soon be under siege. _
> 
> _ Love, _
> 
> _ Faramir" _

Maglor fought the urge to curse aloud. Somehow everything always came back to his most terrible deed, the kidnapping and subsequent adoption of Elros and Elrond (murder was horrendous, yes, but elves could be reembodied after healing in Mandos, while the twins had to live their whole lives with the trauma).

An heir to Elros’s descendants’ kingdom, who had grown up in the house of Elrond, and would undoubtedly know Maglor on sight, was coming. And Elrond's  _ twin sons. _

He had probably been the monster in their bedtime stories. Who better? Aside from Þauron, the other evils were dead or gone, and not even the Enemy had hurt Elrond personally.

Maglor might not be Morgoth, but -- wasn't he? Maglor's destruction had not been on the same scale, nor motivated by malice only, and yet... and yet. It probably said something about him that he'd had a reason for the murder and theft and kinslaying, but the kidnapping, forcible adoption, and permanent mental scarring of children had been all for his own benefit.

He had been singing a particular song about it for weeks, and now was no time to stop. He could not be allowed to forget his own villainy, or the world to forget that of the Enemy. How fortunate that they might as well be one and the same.

The citizens of Minas Tirith were probably tired of the song by now, but that did not matter. It was too important.

It was certainly not because last night his dreams had been of Elrond riding to the city to demand Maglor be handed over. Certainly not because Denethor, who hated elves even at the best of times, had in his madness killed Elrond.

Certainly not because dream-Elrond had been murdered because of Maglor and it was all his fault.

It was fine! Elrond was not coming.

...But his three sons were.

In any case -- wait. What was that, out the eastern window?

A great wave of darkness swept out of Mordor in every direction, blotting out the light of the sun.

(It wasn't unlight, thank goodness, the Enemy did not have that capability on his own, only with the help of the spiders.)

It would swallow Osgiliath in minutes, and Boromir with it.

Maglor took a deep breath, and once more began to sing his mournful waltz:

_ Within a deep dungeon shone two little lights, _

_ Somewhere unreachable, awful and gray. _

_ For rescue they cried on the darkest of nights, _

_ But their keeper had stolen and locked them away. _

_ The Morning Star shone for them, up in the sky, _

_ Bringing them hope that they too might be free. _

_ None came to save them, their tears soon ran dry, _

_ For year after year passed and none heard their plea. _

_ Many years later, the folk of the West _

_ Came hither to bring them to their rightful home. _

_ From the claws of their keeper at last they were wrest, _

_ The Evening Star shining again in the gloam. _

_ One went to the land and one went to the sea, _

_ And if nothing else, they were finally free. _

He paused, then in a low voice added, "Eärendil, if you can hear me, I think your descendants need a bit of hope right about now."

And though the sun was only just setting, there he was.

* * *

Boromir willed himself not to tremble in the face of this great darkness.

"Retreat!" he called. "Return to Minas Tirith! We must protect the city and its people!"

He stayed behind as his soldiers escaped, to ensure all of them made it out, and only followed when he had counted them thrice and the tide of the shadows began to lap at his boots.

Then it pulled back.

The wave crested.

Boromir braced himself.

The wave fell.

And he began to glow.

The pattern on his cloak shone in silver, the star on the hair clasp in gold. The seven stars on Gondor's emblem, those which decorated his shield and armor, lit up in indescribable colors.

The darkness rushed around him like a rock in a river.

He heard his soldiers exclaim, for their stars as well had begun to gleam with inner light, and so too had those star sigils that decorated the ruins of Osgiliath.

When they looked up, though 'twas still early and the sky covered in inky shadow, the Evening Star could be seen, brighter than ever.

"Well was this city named!" Boromir cried. "The stars themselves light for us in the darkness! But our home, our people, need us to fight this tide. To Minas Tirith!"

With a triumphant shout, their hope restored, the soldiers went west.

* * *

Boromir, arriving at his father’s study, braced himself for censure at abandoning Osgiliath. But when he entered, Denethor seemed preoccupied.

“What news of my brother?” Boromir asked, dreading the answer.

“Faramir lives,” said Denethor. “Mithrandir has a letter from him for you. But he is no longer your brother.”

His blood ran cold. “What? Have you -- have you disowned him?” It had always been a possibility, Boromir knew, but he had never actually expected his father to go through with it, especially in a time where everyone was so sorely needed for the war.

“Don’t be foolish. No, I have not disowned Faramir, but the Tower-Singer has agreed to help in defending Gondor in exchange for him. Faramir is his son now, or will be when he returns; he is no longer one of us.”

That did not sit well with Boromir, for more reasons than one: it seemed uncharacteristic of the Jailbird, who was already as a father to Faramir and Boromir both, and unnecessarily ruthless on the part of Denethor.

“How could you trade your own  _ child _ for that?” he cried, impassioned. “Or anyone? Did you even ask what else he might accept, or were you simply too excited to get rid of your second son?”

“He was already lost to us! I know it and I have seen it in the palantír; he is gone. The elves already have him. All that can be done now for him is to make that mean something.”

Boromir stormed out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you liked it!!
> 
> please leave comments and kudos and check out my new oneshot series Nightmare Sequence!!


	23. Entertaining Callers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Boromir introduces his new friend to the Tower-Singer and Maglor has a brief coda to Guilt Crisis #6.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello everyone!! new chapter!!! i'm v excited about the next few because i've been working VERY hard on them and i think they'll be a lot of fun :)
> 
> have a brief mostly-comedic interlude while we gear up for the battle of pelennor fields! also information on how faramir's Sight works
> 
> notes:  
> -original minas tirith was a fortress in the first age, sauron took it over and made it a cool werewolf fortress and then proceeded to get beat up by luthien  
> -numenor was an island that got sunk in the second age  
> -TA 241 was the year of arwen's birth
> 
> translations:  
> -dægrima: old english, "daybreak"  
> -henioril: sindarin, "she who understands"  
> -astyaril: sindarin, "she who brings sunlight"

> _ "The Sight is, at its core, about patterns, and nowhere can this be observed more clearly than in people with past-sight, but those with foresight are an example as well. _
> 
> _ True, a seer can occasionally know things about the future based on a specific object or person, especially people they are close to or objects that have or will have significant emotional attachment. But their Sight, when uninfluenced, sees pieces of the future that echo the past. _
> 
> _ For how else can something be known, if it does not yet exist in some way? Since the seeds of the future are sown in the past and the present, their fruition can be seen, but the easiest futures to see are those that have already happened. _
> 
> _ It is for this reason that seers, especially those of Númenórean descent, can unerringly predict floods and earthquakes." _

-excerpt from  _ Interpreting Your Seer Child's Visions, _ published T.A. 241 by Henioril of Minas Anor.

* * *

Maglor closed the book. Gandalf had given it to him when Faramir had turned out to be a Seer, and it explained much of his abilities.

For example, his uncanny ability to know when his younger twin cousins were going to break rules, allowing him to catch them, because twins were important somehow according to his foresight. A place called Minas Tirith being under attack by Þauron was so specific that of  _ course _ Faramir had been having visions of it.

In short, the stronger that history echoed through an event, the better Faramir could See it.

This left out dreams, of course, which were Irmo's business, and visions connected to specific people and things, but even those could be enhanced by resonance with past events.

At least, according to this book. Maglor was inclined to trust it, as it had been correct about everything else about Faramir's abilities.

He got up to place it back on the shelf (it was hard to read with the noise of the siege going on) when a knock came from outside the room and the door opened.

"Boromir!" said Maglor. "How glad I am that you are safe and well!" For it was indeed Boromir, bearing only a small cut on his cheek though he had been fighting with only short rests for days. "But who is your guest? You know it is forbidden to bring people here."

Boromir gave a broad smile. "This is Peregrin Took, also called Pippin, a friend of Faramir's. He came here with Gandalf."

Pippin waved.

Maglor sighed. "Couldn't you pick a better time to flout your father's authority? He threatened to ban me from speaking to Faramir not long ago."

"He has bigger things to worry about," said Pippin. "The siege isn't going very well, and there's news of a fleet of corsairs coming up the river."

"But you really must read this letter from Faramir," Boromir said, pulling out the paper from his pocket.

"I've already gotten one; Gandalf delivered it."

Pippin grinned. "Trust me, you'll want to read this."

"Oh, all right."

> _ "Dear Boromir, _
> 
> _ I am currently in Rohan, and yes, Prince Théodred is doing well. He has asked after you multiple times. Saruman the White, who had been troubling the Rohirrim, is defeated. _
> 
> _ I will be coming to Minas Tirith with them once the Red Arrow is sent, while my companions take a different route. They plan to defeat the corsairs heading for the city and take their boats." _

That answered the question of what Faramir was avoiding by staying with the Rohirrim. Maglor shuddered at the thought of murder and ship-stealing.

> _ "I'm sure you will hear about this later, but I have met the most wonderful person: Lady Éowyn, niece of Théoden King. She is courageous and honorable, a great horsewoman and leader, trained as a shieldmaiden. It was she I saw in the visions from the dagger, and I think I shall gift it to her to express my admiration. _
> 
> _ I think I may be a little bit in love with her." _

Something must have shown on Maglor's face, because Boromir and Pippin burst out laughing.

"Read the next bit!" Boromir encouraged between giggles. "He starts  _ pining _ for her! It's clear he needs a reminder of his worth and quality, but it's also kind of adorable of him."

Maglor rolled his eyes and continued reading.

> _ "Please refrain from teasing me about this; I know it is not going to go anywhere. She is a princess in all but name, and I am the Steward's second son (and even that means little; we are soon to have a king again). And she is just so noble, so extraordinary (and so beautiful!) that I doubt I could ever be good enough. _
> 
> _ Do not compare this to your love for Prince Théodred. He likes you back, and everyone knows he plans to abdicate the moment he's crowned and go off to raise goats or something, so your positions are no barrier. Lady Éowyn may well end up being Queen of Rohan. _
> 
> _ Remember to stay safe, and avoid fire (yes, I have Seen something). Prince Théodred sends his regards. _
> 
> _ Your brother, _
> 
> _ Faramir" _

Maglor handed the letter back. "I will admit he is being melodramatic, which is meant to be my job, but it's not so funny as all that."

"That isn't the funny part," said Boromir. "The Lady Éowyn he so esteems had Mithrandir bring this to me." He held out another letter, this one much smaller.

> _ "To Boromir, Captain of Gondor: _
> 
> _ Consider this a declaration of intentions towards your brother. I aim to marry him. _
> 
> _ \- Éowyn Dægrima of Rohan" _

Maglor laughed and read it again. "She is called Dægrima? This is an after-name, yes?"

Pippin nodded. "They named her 'daybreak' because she came to the rescue of her people at dawn with reinforcements. I wasn't there, but I heard it was very impressive. They also call her Lightbringer, and Faramir said that in Sindarin she ought to be called Astyaril."

"Bringer of sunlight," Maglor said as translation.

"And you don't need to write a song about it, I'm sure Faramir has that well in hand," added Boromir. "He's head over heels for her."

Maglor smiled. "I really am glad he's doing well. Anyway, where has Gandalf got to? I have to yell at him for a few things."

"Just a few?" said Boromir. "I'll tell him to come visit. Pippin and I have to get him outfitted for battle before we can return to guarding the city, and he ought to meet Beregond."

They left, and twenty minutes later, Gandalf arrived.

"You!" Maglor shouted, pointing an accusing finger. "The boat thing was  _ your _ idea, wasn't it? You're going to let an elf (and a Man descended from Finwë) murder people and take their ships? Isn't there an incident you're forgetting?!"

"Oh, so you heard about that," said Gandalf. "Well, they've gotten an army of ghosts of Men on their side, and no, not Ar-Pharazôn's, just very similar. And Faramir is going nowhere near the boats."

"Thank goodness for small mercies," Maglor sniffed, crossing his arms. "Also, you ought to have been taking more care of Faramir. He could have gotten hurt on this quest of yours! And you also could have  _ warned _ me that Aragorn --  _ Iþildur's Heir _ \-- is Elrond's foster son."

"In my defense, I thought you knew that," said Gandalf. "When you were laying protections, I mean, I thought you had noticed. He's practically your grandson, you should be able to tell."

"I don't go prying into that sort of thing!"

"And?" said Gandalf, probably knowing there was more to it than that.

Maglor sighed. "And if I tried to find out more from the fëa bond, more than just if Elrond is alive, I must break the protections I have placed on it that prevent me from being perceived. He would know I am alive, and likely where to find me."

Gandalf, that perceptive bastard, again said, "And?"

"...And it would also require breaking the protections that keep me from hurting his mind. Don't give me that look, you know I would, even if only by virtue of existing."

"You ought to have more faith in the rest of your mental shields."

"Shut up and go back to defending the city. I hate the new color scheme, by the way."

"Of course. Just so you know, the One Ring was found, and its transportation to be destroyed in Mordor was the quest Faramir was accompanying."

Maglor shrieked, "What? Gandalf! You let Faramir do something that dangerous? You let that thing into Elrond's _house?_ Olórin, I am going to--"

It was too late. The wizard had already left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i just updated Nightmare Sequence and Cilantro Incident, so go check those out! i'm also about to update my sunless sea fic so do go check all those out!
> 
> and as always pls leave comments and kudos!!!


	24. Dagnir Nazgûl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which I posit that Éowyn could have bested Morgoth in single combat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> new chapter!!!
> 
> song is [here](https://jaz-the-bard.tumblr.com/post/632512629718564864/jazthebard-for-ch24-of-my-fic-jailbird-lyrics)
> 
> notes:  
> -title of chapter means "bane of nazgûl," shamelessly stolen from túrin's title of "dagnir glaurunga"  
> -hurin thalion: first age human icon, sacrificed himself to cover retreat when everything went wrong, killed a TON of orcs  
> -sauron took over a place called minas tirith and then luthien and her dog beat him up  
> -aure entuluva: "day shall come again", battle cry of the aforementioned hurin  
> -utulie'n aure: related phrase, "the day has come"  
> -you guys get ONE thou/thee scene and it's eowyn being impolitely overfamiliar with the witch king  
> -her lines are taken partly from fingolfin's challenge to morgoth  
> -so is merry stabbing the foot  
> -so is the giant warhammer and the being pushed down 3 times but rising

Late that night -- or rather, early that next morning -- Boromir whispered to Pippin, "They come with soldiers to break down the gate. I must do something. Mithrandir is busy staring down that  _ thing _ on the flying beast. I hope I shall return."

And he crept off, under the light of the stars, through a hidden exit, to stand before the great gates of Minas Tirith with a single lantern in his hand.

Looking over the sea of foes, his heart racing, Boromir declared, "You shall not gain entry to the city of the Tower of Guard! Never shall this city fall to you! Run back and remind your master how his throat was ripped out the last time he came to a place called Minas Tirith!"

With that, he threw his lit lantern at the crowd of enemies, and began a stand to rival that of Húrin Thalion.

Boromir fought before the gates for hours, barely tiring, for such a drive was there within him to protect his people that he hardly noticed the time drag on.

But just before daybreak, the Black Rider seemed to tire of his antics, and summoned the great battering ram known as Grond, and the name struck fear into Boromir's heart, but he remained steadfast.

The Nazgûl itself, the Witch-King, dealt the blow to Boromir that incapacitated him, but before falling unconscious, Boromir gave one of his rare prophecies: "Thy doom comes, Witch-King, even now it hastens on swift feet." He took a deep breath and spat, "Aurë entuluva!"

(The Witch-King shuddered, but refused to feel fear at this second prophecy of his death. He was more powerful than any Man or elf or dwarf, and no man could kill him.

But when he refocused to finish off this impudent human, said impudent human had disappeared. Gandalf laughed from the walls above.)

(Maglor felt Boromir fall. He screamed.)

* * *

Éowyn once more found herself arriving to battle at sunrise, though this time she was part of the reinforcements, not leading them, and under the name Dernhelm.

She and Merry had hardly been noticed in all the fuss, though Théodred had of course known and given his encouragement. Uncle Théoden had sensibly left his heir behind to govern, and had intended for Éowyn to be with her cousin. And in any other circumstance, she would have obeyed, but--

Something drew her forward. She hesitated to call it fate, or destiny, but she knew in her bones she must be on that battlefield.

Théoden King ordered the charge.

Words rang through her mind in a language she did not speak. Under her breath, she whispered them. "Utulie'n aurë!"

Merry, who rode with her, did the same.

(So did Faramir.)

Éowyn fought. It probably went on for hours, but she could not comprehend any time that was not  _ now. _

But then that flying thing came, and upon it what must be one of those Riders that Faramir had described, and it went for Théoden.

"No!" she cried, but the sound was lost amidst the noise of battle. "Come, Merry, my uncle needs us! We must save him!"

They raced forward, but arrived too late. The -- the  _ thing _ upon the winged beast had struck down Théoden King, and now moved to break his body further.

(He did not expect two warriors, one being very small indeed, to step before him.)

Éowyn forced her voice to remain level. "You shall not touch him," she declared. "I will protect my king."

"Then you shall die as well," rasped the thing in the crown. "Stand aside, and I may let you live."

Without a word, Éowyn slew his fell beast in one stroke, cutting off its head.

The Rider dismounted and stood before Éowyn and Merry, emanating such malevolence that the pair felt themselves to almost drown in fear, but they stood firm, even when he spoke. “Mortals, know ye who you challenge? I am the Witch-King of Angmar!”

"Be thou craven, that thou standest aside in fear of two warriors? Be thou craven, that thou wilt run back to thy master in terror?" she challenged, familiar words that she had never spoken pouring forth in her fury. "Come forth, thou coward king, take off thy crown and helm, for I would see thy craven face! I fear thee not."

“Neither do I fear thee,” said Merry. “But if thou art too afraid of us, leave and trouble us not again!”

The Witch-King drew his weapon, and in one stroke, knocked Merry to the ground, for the hobbit was not much larger than the great mace. In another blow, he swung at Éowyn, and though she blocked it with her shield, she was forced to her knees.

She struck back, and was rebuffed. Again did she fall at the force of the Witch-King’s attack, and yet rose once more.

But on his third swing, Éowyn’s shield broke, and she fell and did not stand again.

“Fool!” said the Witch-King, looming triumphant over her. “No man can slay me, as was foretold long ago! No hindrance at all have you been to me. The Shadow triumphs!” He raised his mace, and Éowyn braced herself, realizing this was all pointless, all of it--

Merry stabbed the Witch-King in the foot.

The Ringwraith screamed, and once more Éowyn rose to her feet for the third time, casting off her helm.

“No man am I, and the Shadow conquers not! I am Éowyn Dægrima, the Lightbringer, Astyaril! Though the skies have darkened, the sun comes at my call!”

She raised her sword, and the clouds and the shadow parted, the sun beaming down directly over Éowyn, transforming her into a vision of blinding splendor, as she laughed and exclaimed, “Behold how thy shadow burns away with the barest touch of daylight!” 

She drove her shining blade into the Witch-King’s face.

The Ringwraith crumbled to dust, and Éowyn fell to the ground in a sudden exhaustion, but she refused to give up. She crawled over to Théoden and cradled his head in her arms.

He slowly opened his eyes. "Éowyn?" he croaked out. "But I thought--"

"I followed you," she said. "Please, save your strength, do not speak."

Théoden coughed. "My wound is mortal, niece. It makes no difference if I speak or not. But I thank you, Éowyn, Wraithsbane, for keeping me from that thing. I love you." With that, Théoden King closed his eyes and was no more.

A scream tore from Éowyn's throat as she wept for the loss of her uncle and king. Merry cried as well, but neither of them could move enough to reach the other and offer comfort. Within a minute, they both fell unconscious, and shadow covered the sky once more.

* * *

For a brief and glorious moment the sun shone down upon the battlefield, and Faramir felt hope kindled in his heart.

But there -- just there, beneath the shaft of sunlight -- was that  _ Lady Éowyn? _

Apparently so, for Lord Éomer cried out, and when the darkness came rushing back in, he ran towards his sister as she collapsed to the ground.

Faramir followed with a sense of foreboding.

When they reached her, Lady Éowyn was barely breathing, and Merry lay a few feet away, likewise barely alive. Théoden King was dead.

Lord Éomer screamed in grief and rage, letting out a wordless keen as he gathered his sister into his arms.

Faramir looked over Merry. "This is beyond my skill to heal," he said. "They are -- not well."

But Lord Éomer heard him not. He was consumed with rage for the murder of his king, and the seeming death of his sister, and he led a reckless charge of the Rohirrim against the armies of the Enemy.

Looking around, Faramir knew he could not bring the two warriors to healing safely; he probably could not get even one of them clear. So instead, he focused himself, and began to draw signs in the earth with his knife.

A circle around Lady Éowyn, Merry, and Théoden King, then every sigil of protection he knew along its edges. After a moment of hesitation, he added the symbol of the Jailbird's family; after all, it couldn't hurt, and he had promised to protect Faramir with its power.

And all the while he sang the song he had written for Lady Éowyn, with more verses spilling forth from his lips as he worked:

_ Éowyn, Éowyn, Lady of Rohan who rides with the Sun on her shield, _

_ Victory-bringer of glittering sword, and her cry rings out over the field: _

_ "Come, Éorlingas!" she calls to her riders; they ready themselves for the fight. _

_ "Day is a-dawning, we ride for our people! Come with me, for now ends the night!" _

_ Éowyn, Éowyn, shieldmaiden valiant who rides with the Sun on her helm, _

_ Arien standing beside her resplendent as dawn breaks anew o'er the realm. _

_ Naming herself for her helm of disguise, with Sir Merry she goes out to war, _

_ Hidden as Dernhelm she vows to herself that the Shadow shall conquer no more. _

_ Éowyn, Éowyn, she of the shield-arm, who stands with the Sun on her face, _

_ Triumphing over the Witch-King of Angmar and hallowed by fiery grace. _

_ Éowyn, Éowyn, lightbringer glorious, brave though the darkness may fall, _

_ Éowyn, Éowyn, Dægrima blessèd, of warriors greatest of all! _

Faramir stood and steeled himself. He would protect them until they could be brought to healing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you liked it! please leave comments and kudos :)
> 
> the next chapter is my personal favorite so stay tuned!!


	25. Water and Fire (and Air)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Maglor plagiarizes a song.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello friends and welcome to my favorite chapter! I wrote the important bit of this in like, mid june and spent the past few months writing up to it lol
> 
> Also I'm trying to finish this story but i got sidetracked bc the song in chapter 34 NEEDS to be an english madrigal and that means i have to write polyphony, so i guess I'm misusing my music major for this
> 
> Notes:  
> \- the last time elves stole boats, a redheaded twin may or may not have gotten crispy when people set the ships on fire (depends on version), it was maglor's brother  
> \- italicized bits in the denethor section are direct silm quotes in order they're fingolfin's final charge, the shipburning, and maedhros dying  
> \- the girdle of melian was a cool magic protection thing made by a maia (like gandalf, sauron, etc) who was also elrond's ancestress  
> \- the "song of staying" thing is from maglor's cousin finrod's rap battle with sauron in minas tirith 1.0

Aragorn scanned the horizon, hoping against hope that he was not too late, that the city had not yet fallen.

Legolas came up behind him and did the dance. "They fight still," he said, able to see the battle from afar with his elven vision. "All is not yet lost. The Rohirrim have dealt great damage to the forces of the Enemy."

Aragorn found himself able to breathe easier.

"I know you feel it too," murmured Legolas after a pause. "The urge to set these ships aflame. 'The inescapable momentum of history,' Gimli calls it."

"I think it's why Faramir refused to join us. He is susceptible to such things, being a Seer. I think Gimli is very much correct," said Aragorn.

Gimli, having heard his name, joined them. "Thank you, I usually am."

Legolas elbowed him playfully. Gimli gave a light kick to his shin.

"In any case, I can't say I feel the urge so much as you two do," said Gimli, "but it is certainly present. Are we, by the way? Going to burn them?"

Aragorn shuddered. "No, I think not. That is not a piece of history I wish to repeat, but it is old, and it is powerful, and all the more so for its wickedness." He paused. "When we disembark, someone shall have to go through each ship and ensure everyone made it onto land." He looked at Gimli and, for a moment, saw double.

Gimli could almost feel the flames scorch his red hair. He coughed (not from smoke, there was none, he hoped) and said, "I think you're quite right. But we will be there soon, and I think the future ought to be our concern, not the past."

And indeed they neared the Pelennor Fields, which were overrun by enemies, but they saw the Rohirrim standing strong against the armies of Sauron. The gates of Minas Tirith, however, were broken, and enemies poured into the city.

They made landfall, and every single person disembarked (someone had indeed not gotten off, but they were found and brought ashore).

Aragorn took a deep breath, and ordered the charge.

* * *

Maglor sang, and kept singing. Boromir had been injured and was apparently now in the Houses of Healing, and definitely  _ not _ dead. Gandalf had been very clear on that point. There was little he could do to heal Boromir from here, so he focused on keeping Faramir safe, who was behind warding sigils with the star, and singing luck and determination into the defenders of Minas Tirith.

And then something changed, and not for the better. A creeping dread uncoiled within him as Boromir was moved. Maglor knew not what made him so anxious; it appeared to be Denethor who carried the wounded Boromir, and while Maglor did not see why he could not remain under the eye of the healers, Denethor would not do something to actually hurt him.

It was more important that he protect the city, as he had promised.

* * *

All was lost! Boromir was dead, Faramir given away and likely dead as well, the gates of Minas Tirith broken down, and the city ransacked.

Denethor’s mind was only fire and despair.

If nothing else, Sauron would not take him, nor his son, neither dead nor alive.

As the overwhelming unseen force of history moved his hand, he placed Boromir atop the piled wood and climbed to join him.

_ “Then he beheld (as seemed to him) the utter ruin--” _

No, not quite.

_ “In a great burning, bright and terrible--” _

Still not right.

_ “And being in anguish and despair he cast himself into a gaping chasm filled with fire, and so ended.” _

There. Close enough.

Denethor set  the ships , no,  his son , no,  the land , no,  himself , no, the  _ star _ on fire.

* * *

Maglor had turned his awareness from Boromir for a time, but when Denethor built a great pyre for himself and his eldest son, atop a floor tiled to mimic an eight-point star, Maglor felt it, not just from the awareness the symbol gave him but the terrible repetition of history.

He could not let Denethor make the same mistake as his own father, not let him hurt Boromir, not let this city fall to the Enemy, not let anyone else he cared about burn. Not again.

He reached out his consciousness, desperate for anything that could help him stop this madness. To his surprise, Minas Tirith was covered in eight-pointed stars for some unknown reason; if he had the time and the power he could raise a shield here to rival the Girdle of Melian, all anchored in the symbol, for no longer was it something feared and hated but a beloved sign of Gondor that united a million people under its banner.

Maglor knew what to do.

He had not lied when he had told Faramir what the painted symbols on his ceiling and walls meant, but he had neglected to mention that such sigils tended to start losing their power after the first millenium or so unless reinforced as he did with the anti-scrying signs.

He began singing, a song even he did not recognize at first, and with his strength of will the sigils broke. As the words came flowing from some hidden source, he realized it was a  **_song of staying, resisting, battling against power, of secrets kept, strength like a tower_ ** and--

\--and every star in Minas Tirith  _ blazed _ \--

* * *

\--and here is something that people tend to forget: light is not good and darkness is not evil. To face the harsh, uncaring, blinding, burning light kills, surely as the gentle shadows comfort--

\--and here is what people forget: the Silmarils contained treelight, a gift from the Valar, and it was that same treelight that shone in Maglor's eyes. And they were made by the skill of Maglor's father--

\--and here is what people forget: they burned the unholy, but most of all they burned thieves and destroyers, for they were made of gift and craft and to touch their antithesis is to burn--

\--and here is what people forget: Maglor knew within himself that he was not a good father, or really a father at all, but the children he raised were the joys of his life, to teach them something or to make them smile even once was to know that not all was in vain, and he cherished them and made sure they knew they were loved every moment of every day, to do otherwise would be wrong and to hurt them  _ unthinkable _ \--

\--and here is what people forget: the love of a parent for their child is the most sacred thing of all, for that is the love Eru has for us--

\--and--

* * *

\--and this is all to say that Denethor was already aflame, but when the star he built the pyre over blazed with light holy and righteous and unbearable, he burned to ashes with the judgement.

Boromir, of course, was unharmed, and though he was unconscious, felt warm and safe and held.

But still the armies of Sauron moved through the city and besieged it from without and within, and Faramir was out there, and soon there would be nothing left of the city to protect. Maglor left his tower and ran to stand upon the battlements.

There is no power greater than love and desperation.

Maglor son of Fëanor raised the Girdle of Minas Tirith.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave comments and kudos if u liked it!!! I appreciate each and every one :)


	26. Dagor Bragollach 2: 2 Dagor 2 Bragollach

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Battle of Pelennor Fields is won.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> song!!! listen [here](https://jaz-the-bard.tumblr.com/post/633413854950572032/jazthebard-song-for-ch26-of-jailbird-part-2-of)
> 
> please check [this](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25291645/chapters/66657841) out for translation and commentary
> 
> alternate chapter titles: dagor bragollach... 2!, dagor bragollach 2 electric boogaloo, etc
> 
> notes:  
> -title is "battle of sudden flame", name of a battle in the first age  
> -maglor's dad feanor spontaneously combusted, rip

Pippin instinctively shut his eyes as every star in the city began to shine, just as the one in Moria had, just as Boromir had described happening in Osgiliath.

He heard the gates of Minas Tirith slam shut, and a great screaming.

Pippin peeked.

The orcs who stood in the light of the stars were burning.

A riotous cheer went up, the sound winding around the song from the tower (no, it did not sound as if it came from the tower, but it had to, didn’t it?), as the people of Minas Tirith again found hope.

(Unbeknownst to Pippin, even the Men who fought for Sauron could not enter the city, instead being pushed back by a burning, blinding light.)

* * *

The runes at Faramir's feet lit up, and suddenly he was no longer fighting, for no foe could reach him any longer, or get anywhere close to Théoden King or Lady Éowyn.

Aragorn and his group had arrived some time ago, but had not yet managed to entirely turn the tide. With this, though -- with the stars on breastplates and on Aragorn's sword and on Faramir's cloak and hair clasp and on the city walls all burning their enemies -- they had a chance.

Whatever this was, a spell or a blessing or divine intervention, Faramir had never felt safer.

He sat down and sang whatever healing he could into Lady Éowyn and Merry. They felt too cold, so he placed his cloak over them, which seemed to help a little.

* * *

Maglor poured his energy into the Girdle, into every star he could find, into whoever those people were who lay under Faramir’s cloak, into Boromir. He had long since left the battlements, and gone to Boromir to do what good he could for him.

(Maglor clutched Boromir to his chest and wept. He refused to lose a child this way.)

He sang, a song he had not so much as thought about in many millennia, but it had always been meant to be a lullaby, a calming song, a reassurance of safety, and if there was any time he needed it, it was now, even if it felt almost like a betrayal to sing it (to whom, he did not know).

_ Sleep, little stars, for the hour grows late, _

_ Tomorrow shall bring you a happier fate. _

_ I'll keep you safe through the dark of the night, _

_ And life will look better in morning light. _

_ Sleep, little stars, soon your parents will come for you, _

_ Just for tonight will you let my voice comfort you? _

_ Soon you'll be home, this will fade till it seems _

_ Just a fleeting and distant dream. _

_ Sleep, little stars, you have nothing to fear, _

_ No one would dare dream of hurting you here. _

_ All shall be well, I can promise you so, _

_ But there's still hours of night to go. _

Elrond and Elros had always fallen asleep by the time he started the last verse, but it was the most important, in Maglor’s mind, both then and now.

_ Sleep, little stars, though I know you're afraid, _

_ Scared and confused by this strange serenade. _

_ If there's just one fear that can be washed away: _

_ Today shall not be your dying day. _

_ Tomorrow shall not be your dying day. _

Boromir was not going to die. Maglor would not allow it. He took a deep breath to begin the song over again, but--

(--but Frodo and Sam entered Cirith Ungol, and Sam cried out to Elbereth, and the star-glass blazed as Minas Tirith did, and the Evening Star did though none of them saw it just then, and Frodo called out to Eärendil--)

\--and Maglor sang with him:

_ Aiya Eärendil elenion ancalima! _

_ Sina neyerë nás úquétima. _

No, he had not meant to say that, but he could not stop a verse once it started.

_ I quettar lá etúlyëa et ni, _

_ Yá omenë ambari. _

Maglor looked up, and there, framed perfectly by the window, was Eärendil shining brighter than ever even in the middle of the day (he had not stopped in several days).

A smile spread across Maglor’s face. This was not hopeless. Boromir would live, and be safe here under the watchful eye of his however-many-greats grandfather. It was time to return to the tower.

To his credit, Maglor did manage to make it up the stairs and manage to lock himself back in before succumbing to exhaustion.

The Girdle of Minas Tirith remained. It did not need him to be awake.

* * *

Gimli found Faramir and tried to cross through the barrier, but was repelled rather definitively, being pushed back a few feet. It was friendlier to him than the orcs, though, who had burned themselves and been flung several yards away.

“Quite the enchantment you have there!” said Gimli with a laugh. “There’s one over the city, too, and the orcs can’t stand the light. Come on, it ought to be safe enough to go now.”

Faramir shook his head. “Not unless it is safe enough to move the wounded. Théoden King is dead, but Merry and Lady Éowyn are in great need of healing.”

Legolas chose that moment to appear, and he too tried to cross the line of the circle, and was pushed back, looking mildly ill. “I really hate that,” he muttered to himself. “But it is safe. We will help you move them if you will let us in.”

Faramir scuffed out a part of the circle and a few of the sigils, allowing his friends in. “How fares Aragorn? I have not seen him at all, nor Lord Éomer since Théoden King fell.”

“Roughed up, but well,” said Gimli, picking up Merry.

The three went towards Minas Tirith, hoping to get Lady Éowyn and Merry to the Houses of Healing and Théoden King to his people.

(The last was fairly simple; the Rohirrim recognized their fallen king and took him away immediately for a pyre, allowing Legolas to hold Merry so that Gimli could move quicker.)

When they reached the gate, they found that there was another problem.

“It opened when I knocked,” said Aragorn. “But no one can cross the border of the city; the spell keeps them out, though we mean no harm.”

Faramir decided to try anyway. He felt nothing but safety and comfort as he crossed into Minas Tirith carrying Lady Éowyn. “I have no trouble at all,” he called back. “But then, I am wearing the symbol of Gondor.”

"Maybe if we make a chain of hands, connected to someone in Gondorian uniform, we will be able to get in," Gimli suggested.

Aragorn cast a critical eye over the gate and the walls and the glowing stars, then, grabbing the hands of Legolas and Gimli both, stepped across the threshold with ease. "It appears that touch extends permission to enter," he said, tapping the star on the hilt of Andúril in explanation for his own ability to go in.

A number of Guards of the Citadel came to see what the fuss was, including Pippin, whose joy at reuniting with his friends turned to anguish upon seeing Merry's state. The rest of the soldiers seemed very pleased to see Faramir, more so than usual.

Faramir raised his voice to be heard over the sounds of confusion. "Sauron's armies have been defeated, and we are safe for the moment. A number of people need healing and shelter, but only those wearing the star of Gondor can enter the city, so I need you to go and fetch them. Any continuing touch allows a person to cross the border. Please inform the Houses of Healing of the coming patients."

The guards, apparently glad to have clear tasks, went to work as Faramir and his companions carried their charges onwards.

Pippin ran alongside Faramir as he led the way to the Houses of Healing. "Is Merry going to be all right? What happened?"

"I hope so," said Faramir. "He and Lady Éowyn faced the king of the Ringwraiths, and conquered him, but some fell magic of his has struck them. It is called the Black Breath, if memory serves. Have you seen my brother Boromir?"

Pippin's face saddened further. "He is in the Houses of Healing. He nearly died, twice, and will likely not be well for some time."

"Does my father know about that?"

"Your father is dead."

Faramir wanted to stop in his tracks, but forced himself to keep moving. "What happened?" he asked, barely managing to be louder than a whisper.

"I'm not entirely sure," Pippin admitted. "There was fire, and a good deal of it judging from the scorch marks, though Boromir has only the slightest of burns. He would know better than I, I think."

Faramir's eyes widened as fire filled his mental sight.

"My father burned," said Faramir, resisting the inexplicable urge to add  _ "just like grandfather." _ He shook his head to clear it; no others of his ancestors had done that so far as he knew. "And he would have burned my brother with him if he could."

Pippin grimaced. "Well, he did try to, but it didn't take."

* * *

Beregond, and all the others who had seen the Jailbird leave his tower, had agreed not to speak of it.

In their collective opinion, he had left only to save both the city and Captain Boromir, so it could be excused, and he had gone right back, so there was no need to acknowledge that he had left in the first place. No harm done.

Of course, it did turn out that the Tower-Singer was more powerful than anyone had anticipated, and he could apparently leave whenever he wished, which was deeply worrying, but those few sworn-to-secrecy servants whose job it was to bring him food and such insisted that he was a good sort. The Jailbird, they said, was always well-mannered and peaceable, and asked after their families and gave them advice.

So it was agreed by the witnesses that they would tell Faramir alone, for though no one was supposed to know, a good deal of guards and servants had noticed his visits. He could be trusted to know what to do, even if that involved telling Steward Boromir.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please leave comments and kudos if you liked it!!! <3


	27. Many Meetings, and Not the Fun Kind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Boromir wakes and Éowyn is going stir-crazy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I published a chapter of the fae elves fic recently so go check that out if you haven't!
> 
> Silm notes:  
> \- I've mentioned fingolfin before but I'm gonna reiterate that he died of Got Bonked By Evil Warhammer

Boromir awoke in the Houses of Healing with Faramir sitting by his bedside, dozing.

He opened his mouth to say something, but all that came out was a dry cough.

Faramir instantly awoke and, stating the obvious, said, “You are awake! I was so worried.” He helped Boromir to sit up and handed him a cup of water, which Boromir drank gratefully.

“What happened?” Boromir asked once he felt sure of his voice again. “I remember -- there was fire, and it did not burn.”

“It did, but it did not burn you. Father is dead, and you are Steward now. Or you will be, when you are well again. Aragorn, Iþildur’s Heir, is here. It was he who healed you.”

Faramir was obviously not telling him something, but Boromir could not for the life of him figure out what.

“The Tower-Singer?” he croaked out.

Faramir nodded. “Still in the tower, though he escaped for a bit to rescue you from the fire, according to Beregond. I will take Aragorn to him later today. Aragorn has a plan to distract the Enemy from those bringing his doom, and we need the palantír for the first part, but it refuses to operate.”

“Good idea. I take it we won the battle, then?”

“We nearly lost a few times, but I think the Tower-Singer saved us. All the stars in the city are still shining with a light unlike anything in the world, and no one, if they are not wearing the star, can pass the gates.”

Boromir took another sip of water. “What about those Black Riders? There was one here wearing a crown,” he said.

“The crowned one was killed by the Lady Éowyn, with help from Pippin’s cousin Merry. They, too, are in the Houses of Healing, due to the Black Breath, but Lady Éowyn seems to be recovering quickly. Théoden King, though, was killed.”

Boromir sat bolt upright. "What about Théodred?" His heart ached at the thought of his love having died while he was unconscious and unable to help him.

"Calm down!" said Faramir. "You will hurt yourself! He is in Rohan, and I assume as safe as one can be these days."

"That is good." He paused. "What exactly is this plan of Aragorn's?"

Faramir looked away and fidgeted with his hands.

Boromir groaned. "Please tell me it is less stupid than the boat thing."

"It is less likely to get us all eternally damned, but more likely to end in the deaths of everyone involved," Faramir admitted.

"What is it?" Boromir said, resigned.

"March on the Black Gate with whatever force can be mustered, challenge Sauron to a fight, and hope with all our hearts he does not bring a warhammer."

"I will grant that such a plan is heroic, but it is obviously doomed to failure, both practically and historically." But Boromir knew his brother well. "You would never approve unless there was more to it. So tell me, what do you plan to achieve with all this?"

"As I said before, a distraction," said Faramir. "This part is meant to be secret, but I shall tell you: the Ring of the Enemy was found, and it is to be destroyed. If we can turn his attention away from those trying to unmake it, we give them a better chance of success."

"Do you even know if they yet live?"

"For now, yes. Of rescues from the darkness have I dreamed these past nights, and there is the Tower-Singers protection upon them, I believe, enough to stave off the worst of the Ring's effects. But it shall all be for naught if the Enemy notices them."

"It's still a terrible plan," said Boromir.

"I know."

There was silence for a time.

"I forgot to tell you," said Boromir, remembering suddenly, "but I received a short letter from the Lady Éowyn you so esteem. If there is any truth to it at all, then she returns your affections, for it is indeed plainly stated that she intends to enter a courtship with you if that be amenable."

Faramir raised an eyebrow. "Do you have this letter?"

"Not at present."

"I shall have to reserve judgement, then. You are free to say you told me so, if she does make advances, but for now I must say I do not believe it."

Faramir made to leave, but Boromir had one more important thing to say.

“Stop.” Faramir stopped and sat back down. “One last thing. Father -- he did something. He said he traded you to the Tower-Singer for the protection of Gondor. It was a misunderstanding, as far as I can gather (for you are free yet and show no sign of enchantment), but if anyone knows -- if they know, they will doubt your authority at best, and may lock you in the tower at worst.”

Faramir’s eyes widened. “He did what?” He shook his head. “I suppose I should not be surprised. Thank you for warning me.”

“Go now, you must introduce him to our possible king. If anyone asks, I will tell them you are Acting Steward with my full knowledge and permission, but they may not. Be careful.”

With a nod and a brief kiss to Boromir’s forehead, Faramir left.

* * *

Faramir went out into the courtyard, where he found Lady Éowyn trying once again to convince the healers to let her out.

"I am quite well," she insisted. "At least allow me to take a walk outside!"

Faramir, who had spent the past days pouring healing energy into his various severely injured loved ones to the point of exhaustion, was not overly surprised. The healers, however, were skeptical.

"You have recovered from the Black Breath well enough, thanks in no small part to the efforts of the future king, but you have other injuries, too," the warden of the Houses said.

Faramir chose that moment to interrupt. "I will be going to speak with--" he stumbled over his words, trying to find the appropriate title, "--Aragorn in a brief while. Perhaps the Lady Éowyn might accompany me, if she wishes? It will not be a strenuous walk by any means, but it may do for a change of scenery."

At the warden's scrutinizing look, Faramir abruptly realized that he had suggested an unchaperoned outing with an unmarried lady that he had romantic interest in. He tried not to blush. It would not be inappropriate in the least, of course; Éowyn was uninterested in him, never mind what Boromir had said, and even if she had been he did have  _ some _ sense of propriety.

"I suppose a careful and accompanied outing should do no harm," said one of the healers, "especially if it is not too long."

The warden nodded grudgingly and Éowyn smiled. It was like -- well, Faramir had already used every sun comparison he knew of while writing that song, so -- it was like the gentle rain of spring falling upon a land that had not known it was dry until that moment. He could hardly bear to look away.

"I would be delighted to accompany you, Sir Faramir," she said. "When do you plan to go?"

"Is now a good time?"

She smiled again, this time directly at him. "Now is the perfect time."

* * *

Aragorn glared at the palantír.

The palantír, being inanimate, did not glare back, but nonetheless gave the impression of doing so.

The stone from Isengard refused to perform its intended function, as did the one Denethor had burned with, though that was understandable enough; it showed only fire. This one was just uncooperative.

A knock came at the door to his makeshift command room. Trying to make the place less of a mess, he said, "Come in."

Faramir and Lady Éowyn entered. She looked much better than the last time he had seen her, which was a relief.

"What can I do for you?" asked Aragorn. "I'm afraid the stone still does not work."

Faramir, though he had been the one to come there in the first place, shifted in a way that was almost nervous. "Since you are the rightful king," he began, "there is a secret that I, as current acting Steward, ought to let you in on. I believe it will solve the palantír trouble as well."

"A secret? Is it something I ought not to know?" said Éowyn, looking very interested.

"Well, yes, but in the current situation I doubt it makes so much of a difference."

Aragorn's interest was well and truly piqued. "What is it?"

"I assume you both have heard the incessant singing? I will take you to see its source."

Faramir led them to the citadel's southeast tower, where they climbed a few flights of stairs. For the sake of Lady Éowyn, still weak from her recent illness and wounds, as well as in consideration for their own lightly injured state, they took breaks regularly.

When they reached the top of the tower, but before opening the single door, Faramir said in a hushed voice, "There lives here an elf, imprisoned for a reason lost to time. He has been here for so long that no one can even remember when he was first placed here."

An elf? Somehow that had not been what Aragorn had expected, but it made sense. What kind of elf would remain imprisoned for so long, though?

Faramir continued, "He has been as a second father to me, and he ought to be able to fix the palantír."

With that, he opened the door. A musical voice from within said, "Faramir! I am glad to see you well. Who have you brought with you?"

The exchange continued cheerfully as Lady Éowyn entered, but Aragorn remained behind a moment to look at the lists beside the door.

Aragorn stepped inside, intending to join in the conversation, and found himself looking directly into the unmistakable face of Maglor Fëanorion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave comments and kudos if you liked it!!! <3


	28. Wedding Planning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Maglor has Guilt Crisis #7.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey friends! Time for a new chapter!
> 
> I'm trying so hard to get the freaking song for ch34 written but it won't cooperate oof :( the words are there but writing polyphonic music is HARD
> 
> No silm notes for this one! It's pretty much just a guilt crisis and some badly translated quenya

Maglor looked up from his harp, though he continued playing, when he heard the door open.

"Faramir!" he exclaimed. "I am glad to see you well. Who have you brought with you?"

There were two of them, one a woman who must be Lady Éowyn, and the other a tall man who looked like -- well. Like Faramir, he was  _ very Númenórean  _ in appearance, if you caught his meaning, though he kept his hair shorter than Faramir did, which made the resemblance worse.

To his surprise, the lady bowed to him and said, "It is an honor to meet you, Oracle of Minas Tirith. I am Éowyn of Rohan. I assume Steward Boromir showed to you the letter I sent him? I was not aware that Faramir had another father, or I would most assuredly have written to you directly."

"Likewise, Dagnir Nazgûl" he said, returning the gesture. "Think nothing of it; I have indeed seen the letter, and you have my approval to court Faramir if it is his wish." They clearly liked one another a great deal, and 

Faramir blushed and spluttered, "I -- what -- you -- you want to  _ what _ ?"

"Court you, Faramir. I thought I was being quite obvious."

"She really was," said the other man, entering the room proper after having been scrutinizing the lists on the door.

Then he looked at Maglor, and froze, recognition in his eyes.

Silence fell.

After a few seconds, seeking to break the awkwardness, Faramir spoke up. "Tower-Singer, this is Aragorn, Chieftain of the Dúnedain and Heir of Iþildur." Maglor stiffened, but Faramir continued. "Since his title in relation to Gondor is currently undefined, people have taken to calling him High Steward. Aragorn, this is--"

Aragorn seemed to find his voice again. "Maglor Fëanorion," he breathed. A strange sort of smile tugged at his lips. "Or should I call you Grandfather?"

Maglor tried not to flinch. It did not surprise him that Aragorn knew about what he had done to Elrond (and Elros too), but apparently he had kept some sort of hidden hope alive that he would be ignorant of Maglor's identity, which was now gone.

(But this confirmed again that Elrond had adopted Aragorn.  _ That _ was why it had been so easy to protect him, he was Maglor's grandson after a fashion.

At least this one time, Maglor's lack of morals had been beneficial in consequence.)

"If you wish to," he said, hoping that Aragorn would choose not to call him by such a mocking title. Not that it would last particularly long; if Maglor was not to be dealt with now he would be handed over to Elrond or Galadriel at the soonest convenience. "Despite what you must have heard of me, I assure you that I mean no harm to Gondor or its people, and never have."

(Was that Narþil he wore on his sword-belt? The blade that Maedhros had given to Elros all those years ago? Why had it not been destroyed?)

"You know who he is?" Faramir asked, plainly shocked.

Aragorn hesitated. "He is... many things, but the most relevant at present is his identity as Elrond's adoptive father."

So that was how it was to be, then. Incessant reminders of how his greatest crime had echoed down through the ages and never truly ended. Maglor could take it.

(It was not as if the adoption had been  _ legitimate, _ not in the only way that mattered. Elros and Elrond had simply been doing as they were told in the hopes of appeasing their captors. It was not love that made them accept him as their father, but survival. They had been so very obedient.)

But the look on Faramir's face when he put the pieces together from all the stories he had been told as a child, the betrayal written on his features -- that was unbearable.

Maglor could not look at him, so he turned to Aragorn instead. "Faramir did not know; none of the Stewards did, or indeed any King since Isildur and Anárion. They all have done only as Elendil would have wished in keeping me secret, for he thought that the elves would be too lenient towards me." He had to make sure that none of this fell on Boromir or Faramir, who had known nothing of the truth, if Aragorn were to be displeased that Maglor had not been turned in to elven justice long ago.

"That I understand," said Aragorn, "but has not Elrond visited this city countless times? He has looked for you, he would not have left you in this prison."

If he had found Maglor, he might have (in Maglor's opinion), but only if Maglor would have been able to convince him that leaving him alive would have some small benefit more than killing him. Since that was an obvious untruth, it would have been unlikely for Elrond to have stayed his hand at all, let alone leave him in the keeping of Men.

"I knew he would disapprove. I kept it from him on purpose." And there it was, out in the open, the most damning evidence that Maglor had not in truth repented: he knew that Elrond wanted justice, that he had tried to hunt him down more than once, and even knowing that, Maglor hid himself here rather than face the fate he had earned himself.

(He should not pretend that this was anything but cowardice. Oh, it kept Elrond safe and untroubled, but he would be safer and happier still with Maglor dead. But he had not known that Elrond was  _ still _ searching, after all these years, not when there had been no sign of him being alive since the Second Age and Elrond had a stronghold he could neither find nor enter.

And even if he  _ had _ been trying to do the right thing, no one would ever believe it, least of all Elrond.)

Aragorn gave a slight frown, but changed the subject. “Would it be possible for you to help me with the palantír? I have a plan to distract the Enemy from something crucial, and I must draw his attention with it.”

Maglor inclined his head. “Of course. The late Steward Denethor asked me to keep him from picking up unwanted messages, so I put a passphrase on the network. ‘Atamir aranion, mecin á antamen centya’ is the phrase.”

"Thank you." A pause. "We will be marching on the Black Gate to challenge Sauron as a diversion. Would you care to join us?"

He sounded as if he meant it. Maglor nearly wept.

Even now Aragorn was kind. He offered a chance for Maglor to die fighting the Shadow, perish doing the right thing, which he had never expected to do. It was kinder than Maglor deserved, but he would accept anyway, just as he had accepted his imprisonment in the tower, with the hope of doing some small good.

And if he survived, those he loved would have the satisfaction of killing him themselves. Either outcome would be only positive. After this battle, he would have outlived his usefulness in any case, whether because Þauron was gone or there was no one left to protect, and everyone would be better served by his death. He had already lived far longer than he should have.

But now, against all odds, he had the chance to die with dignity. Had he not long ago forsaken the Valar and Eru both and been forsaken in turn, he might even call it grace.

(Hopefully it would not be Elrond himself to kill him, if he survived the battle. It would be just, and yet the mere sight of him with death in his eyes would destroy Maglor. There might not be enough of him left after that to reach the Halls, or indeed the Void if that was to be his destination.

And he did not deserve to be able to see him again, not in dreams and certainly not waking.)

"I would be honored," said Maglor.

* * *

Faramir had ignored most of the conversation after the revelation of the Jailbird's -- no,  _ Maglor's _ \-- identity. He snapped back into focus when the elf addressed him.

"I am sorry for lying to you, Faramir," said Maglor. "But I suppose I never thought my true history would ever be relevant."

"I forgive you," said Faramir.

Maglor looked surprised at that.

"I do not think you ought to have hidden it," he continued, "but I understand why you chose to, and I forgive you. Despite what your past would suggest, you have been unfailingly good to my brother and to me. I care for you still."

"...Thank you," said Maglor, voice thick with the beginnings of tears. "I love you, too."

Faramir hugged him, then followed Aragorn and Lady Éowyn out.

"That certainly was interesting," said Lady Éowyn (but if they were courting, perhaps he could get away with not using her title). "It was nice meeting your father; I am glad he approved of me." She nudged Faramir playfully, and he felt his face grow hot.

Aragorn, who was more pensive, said, "Will you have to go and let him out again, to get ready to leave?"

"The cell is not particularly secure," said Faramir. "He can leave whenever he wishes, in truth, but has not done so except once, and that was to save Boromir's life."

"Do you think he could teach me healing like he taught you?" Éowyn wondered aloud. "I decided, you see, while I was recovering, that I would like to be a healer when this is over. For if by some miracle the Enemy is defeated, the world will need fewer warriors and more healers and those who can put things back together and make new things grow."

(Aragorn remained silent, privately wondering if all this made Boromir and Faramir his uncles.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you liked it! Please leave comments and kudos, they're v motivating :)
> 
> Hope you're all staying safe also!


	29. Fistfight Behind the Denny's

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we flashback to Maglor's arrest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> update on the ch34 song, i finished 2 out of 4 sections so that's progress! wheeee
> 
> notes:  
> -i have decided, based on absolutely nothing, that anarion is nonbinary  
> -humans awoke at the first rising of the Sun  
> -before the sun and moon there were two very cool glowy Trees and the destruction of those Trees was like a huge deal (for the valar and the elves that lived near them, literally nobody in middle earth noticed)  
> -elendil vimes rights!!!  
> -zigûr is sauron, he got taken prisoner on purpose by the king of numenor and seduced his way into power and caused the sinking of the island  
> -aragorn is referencing fingolfin and isildur again

Maglor's hands shook as he put on his sword belt. He had found some armor to wear, which was all well and good, but he found it hard to believe that anyone would trust him with a weapon. He supposed he had to be useful somehow in this battle, so he would need a sword, but he had deliberately chosen one of mediocre quality so he would be easy to stop.

He did not  _ think _ he would do anything, but how could he be sure? He had not hurt anyone on purpose for a long time, yes, and could not imagine ever doing so again, but he had before. If given the chance... well, he would simply make sure he did not get a chance.

It would be fine.

And if an orc happened to break his sword, then that would solve the problems of a number of people at once, would it not?

Really, this could all have been avoided if he had been able to fight in the Last Alliance, or if Elendil had simply killed him, but it could never be so simple.

* * *

_ When Elendil had found him, this was how it went: _

Maglor was sitting by the beach, as usual, still processing the downfall of Númenor eighty-five years past. He had known the nation could not go on as it had, but he could not help but mourn the destruction of everything Elros had built.

Well, not everything. Some of his people, at least, had escaped to build new lives in Middle-Earth, and they seemed to be the same sort as he had been, eager to spend every day of their limited lives making the world better than it had been when they entered it.

(He had pulled Anárion from the wreckage of their ship after the great wave. Did Men still know of their origin, their awakening under the first sunrise? Did this child-of-the-sun know their name for what it was, the echo of countless generations of Men who counted themselves blessed for having been born under its light? Who could ever care, they said, about some long-dead Trees that none of us have seen, when it is the Sun that made us live, the Sun our children have always grown up beneath, the Sun that has been our companion?)

It mattered not if it was chance or if Elendil had been looking; he found him there, looking out to sea and as still as a statue.

“Greetings,” said the Man.

Maglor recognized him; how could he not? “Greetings, Elendil, High King of the Dúnedain.”

Elendil twitched, as if he had not expected Maglor to know his name, as if Maglor did not obsessively keep track of Elros’s descendants to help them if he could, especially since Elrond had disappeared to someplace Maglor could not find and hardly ever left it.

“Would I be incorrect in guessing that your name is Maglor? I do not wish to assume, but...”

“You would not be incorrect. I am he.” Maglor felt very calm, though the direction of this conversation was clear. He could run, of course, or fight back, but what would be the point? He could never hurt Elendil, and it really was past time for someone to do something about him.

Elendil took a deep breath. Maglor closed his eyes.

“Maglor Fëanorion, you are under arrest.”

Maglor’s eyes snapped back open. “What?” he said, almost in a laugh.

“You are under arrest, by my authority as King of Gondor which shores you are on, for theft, kidnapping, and multiple counts of murder.”

This time, he did laugh, almost hysterical. It was hardly  _ funny, _ and yet! Was Elendil not arresting a figure of myth, someone who was likely the villain of every Númenórean folk story? What a caring grandfather, to find and lock away the figure from the children's nightmares. There ought to be a folk story about  _ that! _

“Fair enough,” he said when the fit had passed, wiping a tear from his eye. “I freely confess to those crimes, as if there was ever question that I committed them. Let me be judged, then.”

"Come with me to Minas Anor, and there be imprisoned."

"Of course." Maglor handed over his sword, unprompted. "Do take care of that, please. Would you mind if we stopped by the cave I have been staying in? I would prefer that my belongings not get lost, even if they will not be in my keeping."

Elendil nodded.

(This was not how Elendil had expected this to go. Since he had come across Maglor by chance, he had hardly thought anything through. But, well, the elf had been a fugitive from justice for millennia, and Elendil was king, so this was his responsibility, even if he  _ was _ descended from him.

He had expected a fight, though. This acceptance was strange, especially coming from an elf who had tried to destroy his ancestors, who would have sunk Númenor himself had he not been barred from the island by Tar-Minyatur's power, who had so bound that king that even now his family was listed in the lineage of the Lords of Andúnië. Should not the elf want to kill him? If this was Zigûr all over again--

No, not as long as Elendil was careful. Besides, the elf had already tried to take Anárion, Elendil's beloved child, in the confusion when their ship had broken. He could not be allowed another chance at any of the line of Tar-Minyatur, and he could not be allowed to roam Middle-Earth unpunished for his crimes.

Put like that, it was very simple.)

"Then in your prison shall I remain until someone sees fit to let me go," said Maglor, knowing that meant forever.

Within days, he was shut in the tower, and there remained for three thousand and fifty-six years.

* * *

"I have news," said Aragorn.

Gimli sighed, tired of complications to what had originally been a fairly simple plan. "Good, bad, or a mix?"

"Perplexing, I would call it. I found my grandfather-by-adoption, the one who has been missing for many thousands of years, and he says he will come with us."

"He is also a father figure to myself and Boromir," said Faramir, "and, Legolas, I believe your father does not like him much."

Legolas shrugged. "Hardly my business. I know who you speak of, but I cannot be bothered with most of the ancient grudges."

"That's one disaster averted, then," said Aragorn. "Now, who would like to help me contact and taunt the Enemy?"

"I certainly will!" said Pippin.

Aragorn placed the palantír on the table and spoke the passphrase. The stone lit up, and he focused his mind on its connections to its fellows. Upon finding the one in Mordor, he reached out to it, and became suddenly aware of a terrible, burning sense of being watched.

_ Greetings, Þauron, _ he said, feeling himself echoed by his friends who stood with him.  _ I am Isildur's Heir, and I will shortly be marching against you in force. This is merely a courtesy notice, so do not act too surprised when we arrive. _

It seemed that Sauron was about to say something, so Aragorn stopped the connection and pulled himself and his friends back to Minas Tirith.

"There we are, then," said Gimli. "Now let us set off!"

* * *

The trek to the Black Gate was not such a great distance, and Éowyn was recovered enough not to find it too difficult. Her brother, of course, had insisted that she stay behind, but she hadn't listened before and was not about to start now.

(They had had a spectacular fight over it, that second-to-last night in Minas Tirith, in which a great deal of words had been thrown around that neither of them had meant. And things like  _ duty _ and  _ Théodred _ and  _ our people,  _ as if any of those would exist if the Enemy won. Neither of them were excited to do battle, not as they once had been when young and untried and glory-seeking, but they could not disagree that it was the right and necessary thing to do. It was.)

There were a couple of minor skirmishes along the way, but nothing that proved much of a hindrance. Soon enough, they stood before the Gate.

It was  _ tall. _ That was the first thing Éowyn noticed. Tall, and as black as the obsidian in her mother's old hair ornaments, though it could not possibly be the same material. And the gates ought to be hot in the sun from their color, though it was still early in the year, and yet it was unnatural cold that radiated from them.

Aragorn banged upon the gates and poke his challenge, his words uncannily similar to those she had shouted at the Witch-King in defiance.

"--And forget not my noble forebears, who once did as I now do, one who wounded thy master grievously and one who killed thee!"

It was theatric, she would give him that. If this were a real battle, she would call it unnecessary drama, but for a distraction it was perfect.

She squeezed Faramir's hand and took a deep breath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lmao i lied you get ONE more impolite thou/thee
> 
> fun times yall (well, not for mags)
> 
> please comment and leave kudos!!! <3 love you guys


	30. Remember, My Friends (The Famous, Fabled Walls)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which history does (and does not) repeat itself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes the title is from the music man
> 
> listen to the song in this chapter [here](https://jaz-the-bard.tumblr.com/post/635224718017019904/jazthebard-song-for-ch30-of-jailbird-lyrics), and as always there's more info in my side fic Jailbird Songs
> 
> i'm so proud of this one yall
> 
> silm notes are gonna be at the end to avoid spoilers

The gates opened slightly, allowing a single figure through. He called himself the Mouth of Sauron, and he taunted the assembled warriors with Frodo's belongings, claiming that their spy had been captured.

Faramir knew that Sauron had reclaimed not the Ring, and still did not know where it was, for if he did he would not have called Frodo a spy but a ringbearer, and if Frodo or Sam had been caught and remained so,  _ they _ would be shown off as proof, not the armor.

(And he had Seen something about hopeless rescues and true love and hands and Eagles, three scenes juxtaposed.)

Éowyn squeezed his hand and let go, moving forward before he could ask why.

She drew the long dagger he had given her, shining in the sunlight as if made of white fire, and stopped the Mouth of Sauron in midsentence with a blow to his throat. He dropped to the ground, dead.

Éomer gave her a look.

"He was not saying anything useful," said Éowyn with a shrug. "I fail to see how shutting him up is a problem."

Just then, a thunderous sound came from behind the gates, like the footsteps of a great army marching all in step.

Considering the situation, it probably was.

But as Faramir went to draw his sword, he noticed Maglor climb up a rocky outcropping to the side, and paused.

Before the gates could even begin to open, Maglor sang.

_ Once there was a hopeless war, _

_ Long ago, in days of yore. _

_ Shields and weapons clattering, _

_ All the earth a-shattering. _

_ Shattering, shattering! _

_ Feel the earth a-shattering! _

The ground began to shake with the power of his song. The Black Gate trembled.

_ Hosts of soldiers marching forth, _

_ Fighting to the utmost north, _

_ 'Gainst the cruel Enemy _

_ As they met their destiny. _

_ Destiny, destiny! _

_ Met their evil destiny. _

The gates began to crumble. A shout went up from the other side as the stones fell, certainly crushing some of the soldiers, and the voice of Maglor turned mocking and triumphant.

_ Then they threw the mountains down, _

_ Bent and broke the Iron Crown. _

_ Hell was flooded and destroyed, _

_ Evil cast into the Void. _

_ To the Void, to the Void! _

_ Ever cast into the Void. _

The Gate fell.

(The mountains did not, but they looked like they wanted to.)

And as the last chord rang out...

* * *

Frodo came to the mouth of Orodruin, Sam and Sméagol with him. Doom hung heavy over them all.

The ring screamed in his mind. Or in its own. He could hardly tell the difference anymore.

Frodo could not walk any longer. He idly wondered if that might change if he put on the Ring or turned around and left, but Sam had carried him most of the way up, and he would not be so ungrateful as to undo his hard work.

He took the chain from around his neck, and held his arm out over the edge. It felt as if the Ring burned him, and yet, for some reason, he could not open his hand and let it fall.

Sam wept. The Ring screamed further.

Some force pushed him closer towards the edge.

That was the solution. He could destroy himself with it. He inched closer still, and took one last look back.

(Even Mordor looked beautiful in a situation like this, even its blighted barrenness was a part of the Middle-Earth he so loved. For an instant he saw the lands verdant and flourishing, a fleeting phantasm of what, perhaps, once was or one day would be.)

One more step--

Sméagol ran at him and grabbed at the hand holding the Ring, causing Frodo to lose his balance, and they toppled over the side. He fell for what felt like years.

And then, all of a sudden,  _ No, _ came a voice from everywhere and nowhere.  _ History does not repeat itself, not this time, and not me. _

Sam’s hand caught his, and for a moment there they dangled, Samwise-to-Frodo-to-Gollum, hanging from the edge.

Sam spoke with two other voices winding around his own, their tenderness unbearable, too sweet to ever survive a place like this. “This is a rescue, my love. And it will be better this time, because we are going to live. Really and truly live, and heal together.”

Frodo smiled, tears running freely down his face.

Gollum bit at his fingers, and one came off. He cried out, but his grip held.

_ You can let it go, Frodo,  _ said the voice,  _ I may be you at this moment, but you are not me. Listen! There is a song for you played in the distance. _

That voice that urged him, and another, joined him as he said, “Since you have said so, love, then so shall it be. At the very least, I will not lose the  _ entire _ hand this time.”

The last chord rang out.

Frodo opened his hand, not even looking to see Gollum fall and not hearing the Ring burn, his eyes fixed firmly on Sam as he was hauled up and he collapsed into the welcoming arms of his steadfast and valiant companion.

They looked up to watch the Eagles arrive.

(After all, was there ever any question that they would?)

* * *

Orodruin erupted, Barad-dûr crumbled, and the far-off figure of Sauron in his armor fell to the ground as his armies scattered into disarray.

Those people amassed at the Gate had little to do, to Maglor’s considerable relief, for the song had taken a great deal out of him and he would not be able to help much longer.

He drew his sword and entered the fray.

Maglor could not say how long the battle lasted, not as disoriented as he was; it was all a blur. He fought, barely conscious of what was happening any further away than the end of his sword (which quickly broke, though it was usable still), until a flash of light caught his attention and he turned.

A troll stood ready to strike Aragorn in the back with its club. Several voices cried out, but he did not heed them. He would not notice in time.

Maglor rushed to push Aragorn out of the way and took the blow instead.

And as he lost consciousness, he felt relief at having finally done something right.

* * *

Unexpectedly enough, Maglor awoke.

He did not recognize the room in which he came to awareness, but then again, there were not many places in Middle-Earth that he  _ would _ recognize after wandering and being imprisoned for so long. It seemed like an infirmary.

There was no one else in the room, only himself, though he heard muffled voices and numerous footsteps from outside the door and below the window, which looked out towards the city. The light was brighter than he could handle at the moment, so he looked to see if there were a convenient way to draw the curtains.

There was not. He resigned himself to getting up.

Maglor took stock of his injuries as he slowly sat up. There were less than he had expected, but even so he wore a good deal of bandages. His entire side hurt from where he had taken the force of the troll’s attack, but somehow nothing had broken.

He gingerly shifted towards the edge of the bed so as to get up, but the opening of the door interrupted him.

It was Boromir, seeming greatly recovered from both the Witch-King and the fire, and smiling widely. "You're awake!"

"I am indeed," said Maglor with a groan. Talking hurt. "Is everything all right?"

"Better than that! Everyone is quite safe and the Enemy is destroyed. Aragorn is to be crowned, and married soon after. The hobbits who destroyed the Ring are here and recovering well." He gave Maglor a hug, cautious of his injuries, as tears of joy fell from his eyes. "There is much work to be done, but -- it hardly matters; we are alive to do it!"

Maglor let himself melt into the embrace. Just for now, he could set all thoughts of what came next aside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> notes: -frodo is hearing maedhros, maglor's brother, who threw himself into a fiery chasm w a silmaril  
> -sam is speaking with fingon and luthien, who rescued maedhros and beren respectively  
> -frodo is speaking w maedhros and beren, both of whom lost a hand  
> -all 3 of these pairs get rescued by eagles! in fact the only person who loses a hand and does NOT get rescued by eagles is like, gwindor
> 
> please leave comments and kudos if u liked it <3
> 
> i'm gonna try to keep updating regularly but the ch34 song is NOT cooperating and i don't want to publish the chapter before the song is done


	31. Something Like a Joyous Reunion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Elrond meets Maglor again and Maglor has Guilt Crisis #7.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the actual title of this chapter is "listening to Mother and Child Reunion by paul simon on repeat and crying" but that's too long so
> 
> finally the reunion scene!!! it's uh. interesting.
> 
> okay so this is unrelated to anything but i am a Music Student and i personally think maglor is an ars nova kind of dude and it'd be cool if he invented musical notation askdlfhdj
> 
> speaking of music i am more than halfway through the ch34 song! turns out writing music is actually just vaguely remembering things people did in music in the past and then applying them badly to your own music (this is so tonal and diatonic it almost hurts lmao, i have like ONE ficta to prevent a tritone and a single neapolitan six chord)

Elrond was here.

Elrond was here, and he would be ascending the tower any time now, and Maglor would have to face him.

He had seen him and his group of elves arrive in the city the afternoon before, clearly having come as quickly as they could, and now Maglor could do nothing but wait. It had not been four weeks yet since he had first awoken in the Houses of Healing, so Aragorn must have said something to Elrond through the palantír.

(He tried not to think about how that conversation must have gone.)

And in any case, it would have been hard not to notice his creation of the Girdle. It had been unsubtle, to say the least. Hopefully he had not frightened Elrond.

Maglor had moved back into the tower as soon as he was able, unwilling to take up space in the Houses of Healing that might be better put to use by people who were not soon to die anyway. He had spent the time organizing his belongings, not the least of which being the countless pages of music he had written over the years. Normally he convinced someone to bring the manuscripts to the archives or the music library every once in a while (if nothing else, they could serve as examples for students of music theory), but he had kept some of the more important ones with him.

He had forced himself to assess which ones were un-meaningful enough to leave their fates to chance, and bound the few that he particularly wanted to remain in a book for the archives. Most of the pieces that he kept now would likely end up burned out of spite and anger.

(It was probably wrong of him to want any of his work to survive. The world would be a better place with him erased from all knowledge, even if someone would have to invent a new form of musical notation.)

Éowyn had visited a few times, and he had taught her what he could of healing, though it was not exactly his specialty. Faramir had later come to him with the news that Éowyn had proposed to him, and that he had accepted, and Maglor had not stopped smiling for a full day. Good things were happening, and they would continue to happen now that Þauron was gone.

Now that he thought about it, he was the last great evil in all of Middle-Earth. Soon things could be really and truly good, and he could finally stop hurting people.

(His song at the Black Gate had been more appropriate than he had realized.  _ “Evil cast into the Void,” _ indeed!)

He had organized his books, most of which would go to the library in all likelihood, and put away his instruments. There wasn't much he could do with the loom, so he left it alone.

There were few things left that were really  _ his _ after all these years, especially after giving Boromir and Faramir the hair clasps. He had hesitated over the last of his belongings, but ultimately decided that he would be dead anyway, so it hardly mattered what happened to them.

And now he only waited.

(He would never be able to look Elrond in the eye after everything, he knew that. But in all other respects he could at least  _ try _ to face with dignity the death he had earned.)

Hours passed.

Maglor fidgeted.

No. There would be no nervousness, no tears; he already knew what was coming. This was supposed to be the long-awaited slaying of a monster, and monsters did not weep.

(If he really wanted to, he could probably make it look like he was a real person and not an abomination, not a blight upon Arda. He would still die, of course, but Elrond might feel a bit bad about it if he wept enough, if he pretended he was still capable of love or kindness or such other things as the Children of Eru are blessed with.

For that reason, there would be no crying or pleading.)

He had not sung since Elrond had entered the city, so as not to disturb him, and now melodies were slipping past his lips unbidden in short hummed phrases. He forced himself to stop.

He waited.

And waited.

Idly he wondered how well the city was taking the arrival of a group of elves. If Denethor had been any indication, the answer was probably "not well."

He waited.

And waited.

And -- right there! There were footsteps on the stairs. He tried to calm his racing heart, but it was no use.

(He also tried not to think about what his reflection in Elrond's eyes would look like. That would be the last thing he saw, before--)

The steps paused outside the door.

Maglor knew there was some sort of list of notes outside his cell, though not exactly what was on it. Probably all of his shames laid bare.

It did not matter. All he had to do was let Elrond kill him, and then everything would be fine.

The door opened, and Elrond walked in.

Maglor could do nothing but stare, overwhelmed with guilt and love in equal measure.

"Elrond," he said. "It is good to see you." No, that was probably going too far; he had already ruined this, he couldn’t even allow Elrond a satisfying vengeance, this was supposed to be a happy day for him--

"It has been far too long," said Elrond.

Maglor fought the urge to flinch.

Elrond continued, "Tell me, why do you remain in this tower? There are far more suitable places."

Like a real prison cell, he supposed. Or an unmarked grave. Or the bottom of the sea.

"It is what I am used to. The tower has been perfectly acceptable for over three thousand years, and it will do even now. Aragorn allowed it." Should he have referred to him by title? Calling him by name felt disrespectfully overfamiliar.

"Aragorn ought to know better." That was probably true. "I mean, you are practically his  _ grandfather, _ and he leaves you in here? And here I thought I raised him with manners."

Maglor felt his world turned upside down.

Something was wrong, that was clear; Elrond would never call him his father, even implicitly. More obviously, Maglor was not dead, even though he should be, and there was no malice in Elrond's voice.

What could  _ possibly _ \-- oh.

Oh no.

An enchantment, just like Denethor had always feared for his own sons, something that he had done millennia ago that came back into effect with nearness. Maglor could not remember laying it, but his memory had long been unreliable, so that meant nothing. Elrond  _ had _ come to kill him, but once he had entered Minas Tirith, though Maglor had not sung or done anything, he had found himself changed, and no longer wished to.

Obviously, this changed things.

"I really am quite comfortable here, it is like home at this point," he said reassuringly. "I did ask to stay here. By the way, have you met Steward Boromir yet, and his brother Faramir?"

Something flickered across Elrond's face too quick to see. "I have." He paused as if weighing his words. "I did not know, the first time I met Faramir, that they were my brothers, though perhaps I should have figured it out. They are good men. You must be very proud."

"I am. And I am proud of you, too." After all, if Elrond was bewitched to think himself Maglor's son, he would want his father's approval, would he not? Pride was not even a fraction of what he felt and could never say, but expressing even a little piece of the love he held was like nothing he had ever felt.

(Was this how it had been back when the children had thought they loved him, when they had called him their father? Had saying he loved them always felt so warm? It was a wonder he had ever given them up, if that was the case.)

He made polite conversation with Elrond for a time, trying not to overstep or say anything too emotional. This would all be easier if he did not encourage the spell's effects.

Soon enough, Elrond left, with a promise to come see him the next day, and Maglor started planning.

He had to leave Minas Tirith and get far enough away for the spell to stop working, as he had no idea how to undo it, and then he only needed to wait. Elrond would realize what had happened (he had always been a quick thinker) and send someone else to kill him. It would not be as satisfying, but Maglor would be gone.

But if someone came looking for him before he was far enough away -- and he did not know how far that was -- that would be a problem. He wrote a note that would hopefully encourage anyone looking for him to slow down, and snuck out of the tower.

Maglor ran for Osgiliath and prayed that it would be far enough.

* * *

Éowyn found the note the next morning:

> _ "For reasons that I hope shall shortly become obvious, I have decided to leave the city. I will be in Osgiliath if anyone should wish to see me, but please give me time to get there before following. Thank you." _

She showed it to Maglor's sons, not knowing what else to do, and Elrond covered his face with his hands in resignation.

"This has to do with me," he said wearily. "I will go after him now, and bring him back if I can."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> don't worry, the next chapter will be even worse! :))))
> 
> please leave comments and kudos if you liked it, i appreciate them a lot!!


	32. Down to the River

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Maglor continues his guilt crisis and Elrond cries.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title from the song Down to the River to Pray (listen it's a good song and i sang it in choir once)
> 
> WARNING: mags is in a very bad headspace and tries to throw himself into a river in this chapter! do not read if this will upset you, i'll summarize in the endnotes. your mental health is important!
> 
> also yes i am once again just ending a scene w maglor fainting. and what about it

Maglor waited at the edge of the Anduin. He would be easy to find here, and even easier to simply push over the side and be rid of.

He hoped he had made it far enough for the spell to break before anyone had decided to follow him. If he had, it ought to be another hour or two at least before anyone arrived.

His luck was, as always, terrible. It was a mere quarter of an hour later that he heard someone on horseback, and he saw that it was Elrond. He edged closer to the river.

Defeated, he called out, "I am over here. We may as well get this over with."

Elrond rushed over. He did seem upset, but not the sort of murderous that ought to come from realizing his own will had been subverted. Maglor had failed.

"What is there to be over? I had not expected you to leave," said Elrond, "but it must have been from our conversation, so it is I who must bring you back. You are missed."

Maglor refused to react to the implication that Elrond had missed him. "I will not be returning."

There was a pause in the conversation, just long enough to be uncomfortable.

Then suddenly Elrond said, "Is it because of me? You seemed happy enough to stay when I was far away and knew not where you were. With your new sons. You love them dearly, I can tell."

When Maglor did not respond, he continued. "Aragorn said you had not wanted me to be told of you, and the list upon your door confirmed it, though you must know how long I have searched, how much I have missed you all these years. Why?"

His expression was sad and earnest, and Maglor abruptly realized several things:

First, that the mocking dreams had been real, that Elrond had spent millennia loving and looking for the person who had hurt him most, never acknowledging the depth of the damage Maglor had caused him.

Second, that the spell had been in effect all along, even when Maglor had been far from him, even when he had been so far away as Númenor.

Which meant it had been _ permanent. _

Dear Eru, what had he done?

He hadn't known that such a thing was possible, and knew not how it could be done, but -- if there was anything he wanted badly enough to figure it out, enough to forever destroy another person's free will -- it would be the love of Elros and Elrond.

(Gandalf had  _ known! _ He had to! Why had he said nothing? Surely he knew that Maglor would undo it if he could. What point could there possibly be in letting this horror continue?)

He covered his mouth to stifle a sob.

"It was permanent," he whispered, beginning to panic. "No, please, it wasn't supposed to be permanent!" That was probably untrue, he had certainly meant it to be at first, but  _ now, _ now that he had seen reason and knew no way to undo it, he wished that his past self had been less thorough.

Elrond stepped back slightly, his expression turning hard. "Then perhaps you should not have adopted me and tied my soul to yours, if you did not want it to be  _ permanent. _ Perhaps you should have said something," he said icily. "Perhaps you should have told us you only intended to care until you got  _ bored." _

"No, that's not--"

Words failed Maglor. He had at least been  _ prepared _ to be called murderer and mind-turner, but uncaring was not something he had ever been, nor ever been accused of.

It was fine. This was only the enchantment at work; the real Elrond would not want Maglor to care about him. As soon as Elrond realized that, he would probably be ashamed that he had sought the love of his tormentor, but that was better than staying under the spell.

(He tried not to think about the fact that there might not be a real Elrond beneath it, if the enchantment had lasted all his life.)

"You can say that you like them better. I cannot claim it will not hurt, but you can be honest; I will not hold it against you. You have already told countless people that I am not your son, that you never considered me such, if those writings I saw are to be believed."

"What?" It took a moment, but Maglor's mind caught up. Elrond was jealous of Boromir and Faramir, and the lists outside his cell door contained the fact that he had tried to stop referring to himself as the twins' father, knowing he never really had been. "No, I love you equally, and always have!"

"Do they know you care so little for them? Answer not, I know they are ignorant of it. Do you make a  _ habit _ of adopting children you never intend to love? Tell me, how many siblings do I have that I never knew?" Elrond was furious, tears spilling from his eyes. "Were they all mortal, that you did not have to deal with them looking once you grew tired and abandoned them? Was I your only mistake in that regard? Were we even the  _ first _ or just links in a chain? I thought you loved me!"

Enchantment or not, this had to stop. "No. I love you dearly, and I do not wish to see you unhappy. And that is why you must trust me, just for a moment, and then everything will be perfect." It was clear now. This kind of magic could not outlast its creator. He moved towards the edge.

"Stop!" cried Elrond, grabbing his arm. "Please, no, that will do nothing to improve anything! Do you hate me so much that you would rather die than look at me?"

Maglor furrowed his brow. Then he realized. "Oh, of course," he said, and reached for the bond (it must be tied up in there, it was obvious).

Elrond suddenly let go and backed away, eyes wide. "No, not that! Please leave it alone, I -- even if you don't want me to be your son anymore--" He took a deep breath. "Let us go back to Minas Tirith. Please do not tell your sons to bar me from the city, just for a few months. Let me see my daughter married. I will not look for you -- I will take up residence in the tower if you do not trust me. Then I will sail and be gone, and if you decide to sail one day I can -- I can just disappear. You will never even hear my name again."

Of course his past self had put in a failsafe! The children would become distressed and ask for their bond not to be broken, driven by the enchantment itself to remain in its grasp. What a perfect way to smooth over any crisis of conscience -- after all, wouldn't they be happier if he left the bond alone and stopped upsetting them?

(That was why! Even if Gandalf had told Elrond of the spell, he would never have agreed to its breaking, and he might well have  _ asked _ for Maglor to be left unharmed if he was found, and no one could ever say no to him or to Elros.)

A sob left Elrond. "But please, do not let this be your farewell to your sons, the knowledge that you hate me more than you love them. I am sorry I ruined it. You clearly still care for them, you have not stopped yet, so they should have a few more years before you abandon them, too."

"Oh, Elrond, please, I never stopped loving you and Elros, and I doubt I ever will, no matter how selfish it is of me. Now, I promise this will be quick," he said, inching ever closer to the river's edge, "though you will soon wish it was not, but I cannot have it both ways. You'll see, once I am gone, and everything will be good, I promise."

_ "No!" _ Elrond screamed.

(Lúthien was renowned for the power of her singing. So was Maglor.

The stars trembled in the skies at the sound of Elrond's voice.)

Maglor could not move. He was frozen in place, unable also to lean far enough to fall into the river.

He had failed, yet again, to right even one of his wrongs, and now he would be brought back to Minas Tirith and be unable to escape what he had done.

(He had probably enchanted Faramir and Boromir, too, just as Denethor had feared. No one had ever loved him of their own free will, only from duty and fear and magic. He did not remember doing it, but it was as natural as breathing at this point, he was sure. No wonder Faramir had forgiven him for his deception!)

How long would he have to put up with this -- this  _ farce? _ He could not in good conscience act as Elrond's father, but anything else would upset the half-elf in question, which he could not abide. Perhaps, if he could just keep it together until Elrond sailed, he could go and fix things afterwards, and Elrond could find healing in Aman.

Yes, that would do it. Simply get him on a boat, wait a day to be sure, and then give himself to the sea. Let Elrond arrive in Valinor with his free will restored.

But the part in between was a slippery slope. If he allowed himself to be near Elrond for any amount of time, how could he be sure he would not return to his old ways? What if he decided that he should keep Elrond under the spell, and tried to sail with him?

His thoughts were interrupted by Elrond pulling him physically away from the edge and saying, "Why would you do this? Do not mince words, I want an explanation."

Maglor shuddered at the thought of having to recount aloud the unspeakable, but steeled himself.

"I doubt if you remember it after all this time, or if you were ever able to, but you were bespelled, and it was I who laid the enchantment," he confessed. "It is my sorcery alone that drives this depth of feeling in you, and I know not what will undo it, save my death and the breaking of the bond."

Elrond stood silent, probably in shock. Maglor closed his eyes, unwilling to watch the enchantment return and force the blossoming anger back into false love.

He said, "I am trying to fix things. If I had known it still affected you all this time, I would have done this sooner. So just let me fall into the river and you will feel better, I promise."

But, again in that voice that could fell the heavens, Elrond said,  _ "I love you." _

It ran through the fëa bond like a flood, an unending tide, destroying every protection Maglor had laid, the love rushing into his soul and scouring away his defenses.

Maglor fainted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> summary:  
> -elrond chases maglor down  
> -maglor thinks the spell was permanent and freaks out bc he doesn't know how to undo it  
> -elrond thinks maglor doesn't love him  
> -maglor attempts to yeet bc he thinks that'll break the spell  
> -elrond makes mags say what he's thinking and then destroys the protections on the adoption bond  
> -maglor faints
> 
> anyway please leave comments and kudos :) we're in the home stretch now!  
> (i say, having still not finished the freaking song)


	33. Catharsis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Maglor finally gets a hug.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the moment you've all been waiting for! the misunderstandings get cleared up!!!
> 
> but first, more angst
> 
> WARNING: maglor does try to kill himself in this chapter! he doesn't get anywhere and i would hesitate to even call it an attempt because he gets stopped so fast, but please skip down to "Then he noticed that there was a note left on his desk." if this would distress you, your mental health is important!
> 
> update on the song in the next chapter, it is very close to being done! i just have to set 2 more lines to music

Maglor awoke in the tower, alone. For a moment it was peaceful, the sunlight trickling through the window and the sounds of the city filtering up.

Then he remembered what had happened.

He sat up quickly and looked around. No one was around now, but someone had brought him here, so they might return.

He had to make this quick, then.

(Why had Gandalf never told him? Even if the Maia had known that Maglor had to die to fix this, he could have at least  _ said _ something and let him choose. Maglor had thought, once, that even if he could not change the past, he could make his continued existence less of a crime by helping people. But that had been before he knew that every minute of his living was actively harming someone he loved.

Gandalf had strange ideas about mercy and the like, but surely even he could see that there was no possible good that Maglor could do alive that could be worth Elrond's suffering.)

He reached for the bond that connected him to Elrond (none existed for Boromir or Faramir, as he had not instated them) and looked at it long and hard. The enchantment had to be in there somewhere, he was sure; if anyone were to stoop to defiling the sacred bond of adoption for their own gain, it would be him.

He searched for that little undercurrent of wrongness that it must have, some strand of thread in the yarn of the bond that was neither his own selfish affection nor its echo from Elrond.

(It was a convincing counterfeit of love, but no more than that. It was only a product of careful manipulation on Maglor's part, however real it felt to him or to Elrond.)

He found nothing. He searched again, and could not find the spell.

Which meant the entire bond was the spell, made of love though it was. A binding of love was still a binding.

He (selfishly, selfishly, how could he  _ do _ this) gave himself one moment more, and then broke the bond.

Or he tried to. He found himself unable to do anything to the fëa bond, which had previously seemed so breakable.

Fine.

Surely Lord Námo would break it if he asked.

Maglor went to the window, the bars of which he knew were weak, and pushed, singing softness into the iron, but nothing happened, despite the age of the bars. Someone had reinforced them while he was unconscious, and he could not jump out.

(To be fair to Maglor's singing ability, he could indeed sing iron pliable, but that metal was notoriously difficult to affect with magic, and only Maglor had ever done it. Denethor had been right about some things.)

But that was no issue, there were a number of other towers in the city, and he merely needed to get out of this one and find another.

He went to the door of his cell, and found himself again stopped by something. The bars were stronger than they had been, and he was weaker, for, as he noticed, the limiting sigils on the walls had been redrawn.

For the first time in his many long years in this tower cell, he felt well and truly trapped.

There were no sharp objects in the room, not even a pen. He could do nothing.

He scrutinized the power keeping him in the cell, and found it to be that of Elrond and his Ring of Power, and his heart leapt. For a moment he let himself hope that he had really been imprisoned to await sentence, or locked away to be forgotten, that by some miracle his sorcery had been vanquished and his evil seen at last.

Then he noticed that there was a note left on his desk.

> _ "There will be no repeats of yesterday's stunt. I have no doubt that you could break out if you really wished, but it will be difficult enough that someone will catch you before you manage it. _
> 
> _ Aragorn's coronation is at one o'clock, and he would be disappointed if you did not attend. _
> 
> _ I do not know how to convince you that I love you, that you have never controlled me, but I hope you have realized it by now. I have told all to Boromir and Faramir, and they are staunchly on my side, as brothers ought to be. _
> 
> _ Your son, _
> 
> _ Elrond" _

Maglor stared at the letter. He wanted to believe it, more than anything. Would an enchantment go to such lengths to prove itself otherwise?

And yet, even if Elrond did love him of his own free will (an impossibility in and of itself), he should not. Were Þauron not dead and gone, he might call it a curse of the Enemy, perhaps, one that made him forget the truth of what he had been through.

That was a worrying thought. Did Elrond even remember his parents? Maybe he had lost his memory, or merely forgotten things with time, and could remember no one else who had been a parent to him. What a cruel fate, to know no fathers other than a pair of murderers.

But maybe he could find out for certain by looking at Elrond’s mind (or Faramir’s, at that) to look for the enchantment there. He had been sure that the spell on Elrond lay in the bond, but if it did not, it might be the same as whatever he had done to Faramir.

If he could not fix it, he could always yell at Gandalf until he did.

With that in mind, he ate the breakfast that had been left for him and settled in to wait.

To his incredible good fortune, it was Gandalf who came to speak to him.

Maglor took a deep breath and started shouting, and Gandalf did the same.

“You let me--”

“--cannot  _ believe _ your stubbornness--”

“--for thousands of years! And he--”

“Do you have  _ any _ idea--”

“--maybe he could have been be  _ happy _ if--”

“--and now they think you don’t--”

“--and then Faramir and Boromir too!”

“--you absolute fool!”

They both stopped, realizing that they had not understood what the other was saying.

Maglor went first.

“Why did you never  _ tell _ me that I had enchanted Elrond? And don’t deflect.”

“Simple. You did not enchant him, and I would not lie and say you did.”

“Fine. Then why did you not tell me that he mistakenly loves me, somehow in the absence of sorcery on my part?”

“Would you have believed me?” said Gandalf, raising an eyebrow.

Maglor glared in response.

“I thought not,” said Gandalf. “Now, what were you  _ thinking? _ You have distressed your poor sons terribly, and made Elrond think you do not love him. Despite what you might believe, you are  _ not _ the greatest monster in Arda, your children love you of their own free will and in full knowledge of your deeds, and it is possible, even for you, to be forgiven!”

That did it. Maglor started crying.

Gandalf patted him on the shoulder through the bars as there came the sound of footsteps ascending the stairs.

Boromir opened the door, Faramir and Elrond right behind him. Maglor burst into fresh tears at the sight of them, and they hurried to unlock the cell.

As soon as his sons were within reach, Maglor pulled them all into a hug. “I love you,” he said (it really did feel that warm every time). “I am sorry that I worried you so.” He could not tell whose head it was he pressed a kiss to, but it hardly mattered.

“Fuck off, Mithrandir,” said Elrond, voice muffled from his face being buried in Maglor’s shoulder. “You could have fixed this millennia ago, and you did not. I am very angry at you.”

“I will leave, then,” said Gandalf, not hiding his grin at all.

The embrace lasted a long time. Maglor distantly realized that this was the first time he had hugged Faramir without the bars in the way (he had hugged Boromir without them only the once, and he probably did not remember it), and the first time he had held Elrond since the First Age.

If only Elros could be there!

(But he was, wasn’t he? He had never really gone, not while he was loved and remembered, not while the world was still shaped by his descendants, by the choices he made long ago.)

After a long while, they all pulled away to dry their eyes, and went to get ready for the coronation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this story's one (1) f-bomb goes to: elrond obviously, he's earned it
> 
> also lmao can you tell i'm coping with the elros thing by going hard on the whole "a man's not dead while his name is still spoken" idea
> 
> and okay i know it was back in ch7 or something BUT!! the honeysuckle flower, which was growing on maglor's statue in rivendell, means "bonds of love," i have had this PLANNED
> 
> please leave comments and kudos!!! :)


	34. (Shall Give Them) A Crown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is a coronation, and a wedding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i finished the song just in time! listen [here](https://jaz-the-bard.tumblr.com/post/637040510940463104/rejoice-o-men-sheet-music-for-choir-tenor), i'm SO proud of it
> 
> silm notes:  
> -gondor has a cool tree that grew from a fruit of an even cooler tree back in numenor, that tree was called nimloth (not to be confused with elrond's grandma nimloth)

“I must say, I am very glad we cleared everything up before the ceremony. There are some things that you might have found... distressing,” murmured Elrond as they waited for the event to begin.

“More distressing than the fact that Elros apparently decided to just borrow my father’s sigil with a few minor tweaks, and all his descendants went with it enthusiastically?”

“I am completely confident in your ability to justify that to yourself with a great deal of mental acrobatics,” said Elrond smoothly, “but this would challenge even you.”

Aragorn recited some old thing that Elendil had once said, and the Master of Ceremonies cleared his throat to speak.

“This is the long bit,” said Elrond quietly. “Get comfortable.”

“Be it known,” said the Master of Ceremonies, “that upon this day is to be crowned a King of Gondor!”

The crowd cheered.

“He claims rightful descent from Anárion, and in accordance with the tradition, his lineage must be recited. Here stands Aragorn II, son of Arathorn II, son of Arador, son of...”

Maglor unfocused for a moment.

“...son of Aranarth, son of Fíriel, daughter of Ondoher, son of...”

“Are they going to go back all the way to Anárion?” Maglor whispered.

Elrond sighed. “You don’t know the half of it.”

Both of them winced when the Master of Ceremonies arrived at King Turambar (son of Rómendacil I, son of...) and shared a sympathetic glance. At least it was less bad than some of the old Stewards’ names.

“...son of Meneldil, son of Anárion, child of Elendil.”

Maglor closed his eyes and breathed a sigh of relief.

“Elendil was son of Amandil, son of...”

Maglor’s eyes snapped back open. “Are they really doing this?” he hissed.

“Unfortunately,” said Elrond.

“And here I thought Gondor had outlawed torture.”

“...Valandil, son of Silmariën, daughter of Tar-Elendil...”

“When will this  _ end? _ ”

“..son of Tar-Vardamir, son of Tar-Minyatur, the founding king of Númenor, who was descended from the houses of Haleth, Hador, and Bëor, the Edain, and from the Elven houses of Fingolfin, Thingol, and Fëanor, and the Maia, Melian.”

Maglor did a double take.

“Did I just hear that?”

“You did,” said Elrond.

“Elendil  _ hated _ me!”

Elrond shrugged. “It was the tradition already, though some of the later Númenórean kings dispensed with the elven part. I do not doubt that Elendil knew your relation to him, if not your character, and the way I heard it, you did save the life of Anárion.”

Co-Steward Boromir placed the crown on Aragorn’s head, and Co-Steward Faramir gave him the sceptre. Aragorn took the vows of office, and the Stewards pledged their loyalty in the highly scripted rite.

“At least the tiresome part is over,” said Elrond. “They do not recite lineage past the father for Stewards. You know, I really thought you would know about the coronation traditions, given how long you have lived here.”

“The tower is away from this square, so I couldn’t see it,” said Maglor. “Half the time, no one even told me they were happening. Oh!”

Aragorn turned, now the King of Gondor in truth, and declared himself the King of the Reunited Kingdom of Gondor and Arnor, which sounded very impressive even though Arnor was more of an idea than a kingdom these days.

The people of Minas Tirith gave a deafening cheer, both for the King and the two Stewards. Elrond pushed Maglor forward with a whisper of  _ “Sing something!” _

Maglor would have appreciated some  _ warning, _ but he probably ought to have expected a command performance, given that his entire history in the city was a musical one.

He took a deep breath and sang:

_ Rejoice, O Men of Middle-Earth, today! _

_ The Shadow is destroyed, the King is crowned, _

_ The years of strife are past and far away, _

_ And once again does happiness abound. _

_ Rejoice, O Men of Middle-Earth, the Sun _

_ Is shining down in blessing on us all, _

_ Now our delight has only just begun, _

_ And merry music rings in ev’ry hall. _

_ Rejoice, O Men of Middle-Earth, the Tree _

_ Is flowering and glorious in bloom, _

_ Her branches brush the sky, her roots, the Sea, _

_ And all the air is filled with sweet perfume. _

_ Rejoice, rejoice, O Men of Middle-Earth! _

_ For we are witness to the world’s rebirth! _

It was the song he had written for Elros’s coronation. He had been incognito when he had sung it then, sure that he would find no welcome as himself, but judging from the way Elrond smiled, he had not been so anonymous as he had thought.

After the coronation, he was dragged off to meet all the people that his sons thought he should have met years ago.

Théodred was polite, and had probably spoken to Éowyn about Maglor, judging by the fact that he did not hesitate to call him the father of his beloved Boromir. Apparently, he planned to abdicate in favor of Éomer once Rohan was stable, and raise goats in the White Mountains with Boromir. Maglor wholeheartedly approved of this.

After a brief hello to Éowyn and her brother, he was pulled away to meet his grandchildren.

He thought that his attempt at not crying upon seeing Elrohir and Elladan (properly this time, and not a fleeting glance as they made for the Black Gate) was a commendable one, but tears did come to his eyes as he embraced them.

And Arwen! She was taller even than Maglor, and every kind of joy was writ on her face, and, too, a shade of sorrow he could not help but recognize, and all at once he realized she would be mortal.

* * *

Just before Arwen’s wedding, she spoke to Maglor, worry clear in her voice.

“Do you think I am making a mistake?” she asked, almost hoping he would say yes so that the decision would be out of her hands.

“I am not one of the members of this family with foresight,” he said dryly, “and you folk greatly outnumber me. I do not think that that is what you are asking.”

“I suppose you are right. I just -- I am afraid. I  _ know _ that this is the right time for my Choice, that I have found the people I want to be human with. And still...”

“And still, it is strange and unfamiliar,” Maglor finished. “But is it still what you want?”

“It always has been, since I was old enough to put words to what I felt. I only delayed choosing so I could wait for the right time.”

“Then I think you have your answer. What time could be more right? You shall have to get used to making choices without waiting, if you are to be a Man.”

Arwen hugged him. “Thank you, granddad.”

* * *

The wedding of Aragorn and Arwen was a beautiful one. The couple danced together before the White Tree, which bloomed for the first time in many years. Éowyn and Faramir (whom Arwen always called her aunt and uncle, much to Aragorn’s dismay at having heard the joke too many times) announced their betrothal at the feast.

In a quiet corner, Elrond said, “I plan to sail soon, to be reunited with my dear Celebrían. Will you come with me?”

Maglor started. “I did not know that was an option.”

“It is. A new development, I admit, but you can sail; I know Galadriel will.”

Maglor was silent.

Eventually, he said, “Not yet. Eventually, yes, but not yet.” He smiled. “I must look after your brothers, but I will be along at some point.”

“I am glad. I do not wish to be parted from you for so long again!”

“You will not be, I assure you,” said Maglor. “I love you, and I will not abandon you again. You shall simply have to share my attention for a time.”

Elrond gave a dramatic sigh. “Well, I had to share you back then, too. I will survive somehow.”

“I have great faith in your ability to endure a few years until we are both in Aman. You have already waited six thousand, six hundred, and sixty-three years, after all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's just the epilogue after this! almost done!!
> 
> please leave comments and kudos if you liked it :) i appreciate them so much!


	35. Epilogues

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there are happy endings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaaaaaa we made it!! last chapter, and the one that pushes this fic over 50k :)
> 
> i'm so grateful to everybody who's been reading this story and giving kudos and comments and stuff, and listening to the music i wrote!
> 
> one last silm note:  
> -maglor's dad named all his kids after HIS dad, their names taking the form + finwë, so they've got a bit of a naming tradition going
> 
> and since it's the last chapter, i have flower symbolism!  
> sword lilies: honor, strength, integrity  
> laurel: victory  
> yarrow: healing
> 
> and a name meaning:  
> Éonod: "horse" + "boldness, daring"  
> Elboron (canonical name of éowyn and faramir's son): steadfast star, from "elen" (star) and "boron" (steadfast, enduring)  
> note that the name "boromir" comes from the same root "boron"

Faramir bade farewell to the hobbits, who were all eager to return home, as they left Minas Tirith.

(Some more eager than others -- Frodo and Sam were headed back to get married, the two of them and Rosie Cotton, if she’d have them.)

Éowyn stood beside him, also saying goodbye, especially to Merry, and promised to visit soon.

As the couple waved off their dear friends, their hands found one another’s. The strange revelation of real and lasting peace settled over them gently, as the starry cloak of Finduilas of Dol Amroth settled upon Éowyn’s shoulders to keep off the morning chill.

* * *

Éowyn and Faramir’s wedding occurred the very next spring, when the sword lilies bloomed (and were ignored in favor of the little yarrow blossoms in Éowyn’s crown of laurels), and the sun shone bright overhead. Neither member of the couple could stop smiling for an instant.

Maglor cried, of course, to see them so happy, and so did Elrond, in joy for his newfound brother and healing apprentice.

Faramir, for one glorious moment, saw their future together laid out before him in its entirety, every day of their lives from the heights to the depths, the sweet to the bitter, and Éowyn saw it, too.

(Neither of them looked at it. Some things were better as a surprise.)

At the feast, Éomer, the new king of Rohan since Théodred abdicated, made the acquaintance of Lothíriel of Dol Amroth, and sparks flew between them.

* * *

Only a few years later, not long after the wedding of Boromir and Théodred (which had been a spectacular affair) and the move to Ithilien, Éowyn and Faramir welcomed their son to the world.

Éowyn suggested the name Elboron, that he might be named after the brothers of Faramir, which they had already been considering.

“You have a brother as well. Do you not want to name our child after him?” Faramir asked.

Éowyn waved a hand. “It starts with an E, so he shall just have to be satisfied. I can give little Elboron another name, though; goodness knows everyone in this family already has too many names.”

“I only have the one!”

“And you gave me several in that poem of yours, so it’s your own fault there,” she laughed. “Besides, your father offered to name you in his family’s tradition, and you still haven’t said yes or no. You’ll want to catch up to our baby, won’t you?”

“What will you name him, then?”

“Hmm. I think he would make a very good Éonod,” said Éowyn, holding up the baby. “Do you like that? Do you want to be named Éonod?”

The baby opened his eyes.

“I think that’s a yes! Do you want to tell him his name?”

Faramir took the offered baby into his arms carefully and looked down at his son, heart full to bursting with a beautiful and indescribable feeling that made him feel soft and warm, all the rest of the world forgotten. “Hello, Elboron Éonod,” he murmured. “I love you.”

* * *

Years later, lit by the glow of deepening sunset, a ship sailed.

(Middle-Earth was in good hands.)

* * *

The port of Avallónë was always busy, but today held special significance. It had been years since a ship had come in from Middle-Earth.

Everyone who waited at the dock (a large portion of multiple royal families, a number of them recently reborn, and also Bilbo) knew exactly who was coming.

Frodo, Sam, and Rosie stepped off first, and went immediately to a delighted Bilbo for a long-awaited reunion.

Elrond and Maglor went next, and were immediately mobbed by their various relatives. Elrond in particular had barely taken a single step before the entire crowd tried to hug him at once.

Tears of joy in his eyes, he tried to hug back the entire group. Celebrían was there, and all the parents he had lost, and his friends, and all the grandparents he had never met--

There were no words for it.

(Elvenhome, indeed! He felt at home already, and the great shadow of time and grief on his heart felt lightened.)

Maglor, who had taken the opportunity to hug Elrond as well, since this was already happening, murmured, “And you’re sure no one is going to try and throw me in prison again? I’m rather tired of it, if I’m telling the truth.”

Elrond laughed, clear and bright, and the world righted itself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and that's that!
> 
> thank you all so much for reading (and listening! please do listen to the songs!) to this fic <3
> 
> i have some other works in progress happening, and my semester at college ends today, so it shouldn't be too long before i publish something new! i also need to catch up publishing cilantro incident and finish lay of stolen stars :)
> 
> and one last time for this fic, i'm gonna ask that you leave comments and kudos if you liked it :)

**Author's Note:**

> In light of recent events: I do not consent to my own original ideas that appear in my fics being used without permission or without credit. If you are able to pick up ideas from my fic then you are certainly able to ask me for permission, and if you are going to publish, credit is REQUIRED.
> 
> This includes names such as elenyafinwë, aþelairë, and almatáru, as well as a number of other details and ideas that appear in my works.
> 
> If you are going to use my ideas for fic that excludes LGBTQ+ characters, for reasons religious or other, I do not give you permission to use them, even with credit.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Sona of the Great Sea](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25475779) by [betsy_malfoy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/betsy_malfoy/pseuds/betsy_malfoy)




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